Entertaining Angels
by Laura of Maychoria
Summary: A strange boy shows up at Dean and Sam’s motel room. Maybe he needs help, or maybe he’s there to help them—they can’t quite tell. Spoilers through 4.10. Not an OC.
1. Chapter 1

**Fandom: ** Supernatural  
**Title: ** Entertaining Angels  
**Author: ** Maychorian  
**Characters: ** Dean, Sam, Castiel  
**Category: ** Gen, Angst, Crackiness (knowing me, there will probably be some h/c later, too)  
**Rating: ** K+/T  
**Spoilers: ** Through 4.10  
**Summary: ** A strange boy shows up at Dean and Sam's motel room. Maybe he needs help, or maybe he's there to help them—they can't quite tell.  
**Word Count: **1658  
**Disclaimer: **Angels belong to God. The Winchesters belongs to Kripke. It's a sad, sad world we live in.  
**Author's Note:** _Be not forgetful to entertain strangers: for thereby some have entertained angels unawares. (Hebrews 13:2)_ And The Newsboys. Also, I keep re-watching the confrontation scene at the end of 4.10, and Castiel _kills_ me. Also also, I can't believe I'm actually writing this.

**Entertaining Angels**

Something was tapping on wood, soft and tentative, stopping and then starting again. Dean rolled himself tighter into his blankets and squeezed his eyes shut, determined to get just a little bit more sleep. They had nowhere to go, nowhere to be, no hunt, no demons on their tail at the moment. Surely they were allowed a break now, right?

If the tapping had been regular, he would have just tuned it out and faded down into sleep again. This, though, was both constant and sporadic enough to be annoying. And it. Wasn't. Stopping.

Dean grunted, rubbing his head on his pillow in frustrated longing, then jerked himself up and off the bed, still tangled in blankets, eyes only partly open. "Sammy?" The word was slurred, full of sleepy phlegm. Bleary eyes caught his brother heavily asleep on the other bed, head turned away. Not even twitching.

They were both still scraped raw and empty by the events of the day before. Dean felt like his insides had been scrubbed out with steel wool, achy and sore, too rough to handle, flinching at any touch. He just wanted to forget, but that was denied him.

Sam knew everything now, knew all the darkness Dean had tried to shield him from, knew just how far his big brother had fallen. Kid deserved to get a good sleep after absorbing that kind of blow. At least he still _could_ get a good sleep.

Dean tried not to be jealous of that, tried not to resent his baby brother for still having that gift.

The tapping started again, a little louder, a little more insistent. Dean swung around and squinted at the door. Someone was knocking on the door. The light outside was soft, still early. Who the hell…?

Dean shuffled over to the door and put an eye to the peephole, but couldn't see anything but a dark blob low down in the distorted view. Seriously. What the hell.

With an inward shrug, he opened the door. Whatever was going on, it couldn't possibly be any freakier than their last job.

A young boy blinked up at him, fist still raised to knock. He looked to be about eight or nine years old, unruly dark hair standing up as if he'd just woken from a restless slumber, big eyes blinking as if he was still sleepy. He was wearing a light gray t-shirt and formless pants, both wrinkled and a little dirty, and—Dean flicked his eyes downward—no shoes, filthy bare toes wiggling on the concrete of the walk outside the motel room.

Dean blinked and took a step back, just enough so as not to loom over the little guy. He must have been standing pressed right against the door, toes lined up on the bottom jamb. "Sorry, kid. You have the wrong room. You staying here with your parents?"

The boy shook his head, slow and solemn. He opened his mouth and closed it, and his forehead wrinkled in bewilderment. "I…"

The voice was small, squeaky, as if it had never been used before. The boy frowned and looked down at his toes, curling against the concrete. A shudder passed over his shoulders, swift but strong. Dean recognized fear, confusion.

Dean sighed, then knelt on one knee to be more on the child's level. Kid was obviously lost, and Dean wasn't going to feel right until he helped him find his folks. Or whatever.

"Hey. I'll help you figure it out, okay? We can go to the office and find where you're supposed to be. What's your name?"

The boy stared at him. The gaze was disconcerting, unfathomable, lasted too long, fastened to Dean's face as if held by a magnet. And his eyes, that deep, dark blue, so innocent and curious and full of yearning…

Dean drew in a sharp breath, and he knew.

"Holy _crap!"_

X

"Sam! Sam, wake up!"

Sam groaned and pressed his cheek into the pillow. It wasn't time to get up yet. They weren't on a job. There was absolutely no reason to get up.

"Sam! I need you to get the first aid kit!"

Sam's eyes snapped open at that, at the urgency in his brother's voice as much as at the words themselves. He was upright before he knew what he was doing, though he was already all but shaking with angry frustration, wondering how in the world Dean had managed to get himself injured, and this just when they had been hoping for some downtime, too. Dean was…

Dean was crouching on the floor near the motel door, kneeling next to a strange little boy, looking intently at the kid's bare feet.

"Dean? What the crap, man?"

His brother looked up, eyes wide, almost panicked. "He must have been walking to get here. On that gravel road outside. His feet are all cut up. C'mon, Sam, get the kit!"

Sam untangled himself from the bedding, stifling the questions that crowded his mind like a horde of angry bees. Now was obviously not the time. He went to fetch the kit they had stashed in the bathroom while Dean picked up the little boy, grabbing under his slender arms, and swung him up to sit on the small wooden table in the kitchenette of the semi-furnished room.

He brought the plastic box out to the table and set it down, then sank into a chair next to his brother and the strange child, unable to stop staring. The boy seemed vaguely familiar…maybe he'd seen him around the motel when they checked in last night. That didn't explain the almost-panic in Dean's eyes and movements, though.

Dean knelt beside the table, carefully cradling the little feet in his hands, one at a time, studying them as if they could answer some urgent question. He barely looked up when Sam rummaged in the kit and found antiseptic wipes, then handed them down to him. The boy just sat there, silent, staring. He flinched slightly when Dean started cleaning his cuts and scrapes, but didn't make a sound.

"Sorry, sorry," Dean muttered, his touch tender on the small feet, unbearably cautious. As if he was handling a tiny wounded bird. "Sorry, kiddo. It's gonna be okay."

The boy reached out and patted Dean's chest, gentle and soft. "Dean," he said. And smiled.

His smile was blinding. Like watching a world being born, new and whole and unsullied.

Sam swallowed. "Dean… Who is this?"

Dean finally looked up and met Sam's eyes. Panic still showed in the white around his irises, uncertainty and bewilderment, but there was determination there, too. "I think… Sam, I think it's Castiel."

Sam's mouth fell open.

"I know, I know," Dean added hastily. "I know how crazy it sounds. But look…look at his eyes. And, and he just showed up here, was just standing there knocking on the door as if he had nowhere else to go. And, and oh, God, Sam, look at his feet. No calluses. They're as soft as a newborn's."

He held up one little foot with a bizzare flourish of almost-triumph, thumb pressing against the scraped and bruised sole, fingers wrapped gently around the heel, his hand seeming incredibly thick and strong and tanned against the pale, soft flesh. The boy trembled silently and wiggled his toes, shoulders hunching up a little. And then he giggled.

Both Sam and Dean jerked their heads around to stare at his face, mouths open in astonishment. The boy went sober instantly, staring intently at his foot. Then he wiggled his toes again, watching in fascination as they moved both separately and together.

Dean grinned suddenly, squeezing the foot carefully, then moving the callused pad of his thumb over the newborn-soft sole. The child giggled again, the sound rising and bursting in the room like soap bubbles, iridescent and sweet. "Oh, you like that, huh? You're ticklish!" Dean swiveled his gaze over to beam at Sam, utterly delighted with this discovery. "Sam! Castiel is ticklish!"

"I…I see that. That's…great."

Dean lowered the foot back down, letting it dangle. The boy swung his legs, grinning small but real. "Okay, kiddo, looks like nothing is bleeding, but we'll still wrap it up, all right?"

Sam wordlessly handed him a roll of gauze, and Dean suited actions to words. Sam, though, couldn't seem to stop staring at the child sitting on the motel table, still trying to fit this image of quiet innocence with the figure of remote power he had first met the day before Halloween. The one who had hesitated before taking his hand, who had called him "the boy with the demon blood."

The boy tilted his head to the side to meet Sam's gaze, still smiling that little smile. Sam looked into dark blue eyes, and the boy looked back, serene and silent, holding his gaze for far longer than was normal. After a moment that seemed like forever, Sam gasped and jerked back in his seat, one hand rising as if to shield himself.

"Castiel?" he whispered, barely believing.

The child's smile widened, and he reached out to touch Sam's cheek, feather-soft. "Sam." Then he looked back down at Dean, the smile fading. "Sam and Dean."

"That's us, kid." Finished with his task, Dean ripped off the end of the gauze and tossed the diminished roll back into the open first aid kit, then stood and held his arms toward the boy. "You found us. Everything's gonna be okay."

Castiel went into Dean's arms without hesitation, letting him scoop him off the table and carry him over to the ratty couch, sagging in the middle. Sam drew in a shaky breath and watched them, wishing he could believe that Dean was telling the truth, not just shoveling out a soothing platitude for a scared little kid.

This was so far outside their realm of expertise, it wasn't even in the same solar system.

TBC


	2. Chapter 2

Thanks so much to everyone who reviewed and added this story to alerts! It means an awful, awful lot to me that you are interested in this story, and your comments give me lots of joy. :D

**2**

Castiel seemed to be having trouble with using his voice, trouble forming thoughts into words. He was also incredibly distractible, gaze constantly flicking away to stare with intense focus at some ordinary object or another. Everything in the world was fascinating to him. As if everything in the world was brand-new.

Perhaps it was because this child was brand-new to the world.

They sat on the couch, Castiel cross-legged, his back against a worn arm, body leaning sideways against the cushions. Dean sat facing him, one leg tucked under the opposite knee so he too could sit sideways. No matter where Castiel's eyes wandered, his attention constantly returned to Dean, studying his face, watching every tiny movement, listening to every word, and trying to respond with limited success. Sam sat nearby, watching but offering no help.

"Castiel, I need to know what's going on," Dean tried again. "Did you fall? Did you tear your grace out?" Damn, that didn't sound any less weird coming from his mouth than from Anna's.

Castiel frowned and looked down at himself, touching a hand to his chest. His shoulders moved in a shrug, a gesture he had picked up from Sam almost immediately. Which was just peachy keen, Dean had to say. Now he had _two_ uncommunicative little cusses to deal with.

"Words, buddy. I need you to use words. I know it's tough, but please try. For me?"

The boy looked back to Dean's face, squinting as if against some sort of light. He nodded, solemn and slow, and managed to echo one word. "Try."

"Okay, good. Thanks for trying. Now, can you tell me what happened? What happened to your vessel?"

Again the concentrated frown. The word was slow, broken into two separate syllables. "Vessel?"

"The guy…the holy tax accountant. The person whose body you were wearing. Is this it? Is this him? Something happened to make your vessel into a child?"

Castiel pressed both hands to his chest at this, as if trying to feel inside himself. The frown pulled his face down, made him look far too old for his apparent age. "Human," he said at last, then smiled brilliantly, pleased with himself for figuring that out.

"Yeah, I got that." Dean rubbed a hand over his face and tried not to sigh in frustration. The kid was trying, he was trying really hard, but none of this was making sense. "You're definitely feeling more emotions than the average angel, and your usual transportation mojo seems to missing. We're just trying to figure out how this happened."

Sam leaned forward, sitting in the wooden chair he had dragged over from the table. "Castiel, if you fell, you could be in danger. We don't really know how this works. We want to help you."

Castiel turned his head, still letting it lean against the back of the couch, and smiled at him. "Sam," he said, the same way he had before, gentle and relieved and thankful.

"Yeah, that's me." Sam rested his elbows on his knees, letting his hands dangle wearily. While Dean was beginning his initial attempts at conversation with their strange visitor, Sam had taken the time to shower and dress, so at least outwardly he appeared marginally more able to deal with this bizarre situation than Dean, who was still wearing his sleep boxers and baggy shirt. It was probably an illusion, though.

None of them was remotely prepared for this.

"Do you remember anything?" Dean asked. "Anything from before this happened, from before you were in…this body?"

Castiel looked down at his lap, staring at the fabric over his thighs, rubbing a finger wonderingly over it. Distracted again.

Dean sighed. "Cas. Try to stick with me, here. What do you remember?"

The boy flinched at the irritation in his voice and looked back to Dean's face, instantly contrite. "Remember…you. Dean. Sam." His fingers fluttered at his throat, the soft spot under his chin. Dean swallowed, stomach churning, remembering evil fingers that had pressed there, choking, hurting. "Remember you…" He faltered, unable to find the word, and looked at Dean imploringly. "Rescue. You. Rescue."

The child was trembling now, folding himself into a little ball in the corner of the couch, eyes wide with the memory. Dean's hands moved forward of their own volition, cupping the small shoulders, thumbs rubbing soothing circles in the hollows between arms and chest. "Sorry, kiddo. Sorry. It's okay. Yeah. Rescue. That was me. That's why you came here, came to me?"

Castiel blinked and nodded, chin jerking slightly with his trembling. The words were whispered, barely audible. "You. Safe."

"Yeah. Safe with me." Dean sighed and looked to Sam, silently pleading for his brother to take over. God, an angel child had come to him for protection. It was just a tiny bit too much.

Sam opened his mouth, then shook his head, eyes wide, and leaned back in his chair. Too much for all of them.

A low grumble interrupted his shell-shocked musings, and Dean looked back to the little boy. "Dude, was that _your_ tummy? I think that was your tummy."

Castiel's knees came down a little bit from his chest so he could fold both hands against his stomach, eyes wide, wide and blue. The trembling was fading as he concentrated on this new sensation. He looked back to Dean and nodded faintly.

"Man, that sounded like a bear." Dean grinned, still holding the kid's shoulders. "Did you know that your stomach could sound like a bear? That's pretty awesome, huh?"

Castiel looked down at his hands, pressed against his belly, knees coming down a little more. "Awesome," he echoed. Then he looked up, face twisted in what might very well be his first grimace. "Hungry."

"Yeah, I bet. Guess we'd better feed that bear." The trembling was gone now. Dean carefully released his shoulders and sat back. "Sam? Do we have any food for a bear?"

Sam was looking at Castiel with the scary-sharp focus he usually reserved for a particularly puzzling piece of research. "How long have you been in this body? Did you eat at all in that time?"

The boy squinted at him. "Long?"

"It's been three days since we last saw you and Uriel." Sam held up three fingers. "That long?"

Castiel shook his head, still unable to grasp the concept. "Just…woke."

"Okay. Was it light or dark when you woke up for the first time like this?"

"Light." He blinked, finally getting it. "Light, dark, light, dark. Here. You. Dean and Sam."

It was the most words he had strung together yet. Dean found himself feeling strangely proud of the accomplishment.

Sam nodded. "Okay. Two days. Did you eat anything, or were you just walking?"

Castiel touched one hand to his bandaged foot, eyes far away. "Walking. Walked far."

Dean bit his lip, suddenly seeing the way the little boy lay against the couch cushions, weary and limp, the circles under his eyes and the gauntness of his cheeks. Shit. Two days. He hoped the kid had at least managed to drink some water—dehydration was nothing to mess around with. Maybe the trouble he was having with talking wasn't only caused by the whole new-to-having-a-child's-mouth-and-throat thing.

He looked to Sam, instinctively trusting his brother to know how to fix this. "Dude, we gotta feed him. Are there any M&Ms left in the car?"

Sam shook his head, spreading his hands. "Dean, we can't just give him junk food."

Dean frowned at him. "If this is going to turn into one of your health lectures, Mr. Jolly Green Giant…"

"No, I mean, his body won't take it. If this really is a brand-new body, which is what it looks like, what with the lack of calluses and scars and everything, he's going to have to work up to being able handle all the fat and salt and preservatives that we put in our food. He needs something that'll be easy to digest, at least for awhile."

Dean huffed out a breath. "Okay, okay. How do you know this stuff?"

It was meant to be rhetorical, but Sam answered anyway, his face earnest. "This guy I knew at Stanford, Rick Deerford. He'd been in the Peace Corps, some place in West Africa. The village where he lived and worked was isolated, and everything they ate was simple, pretty much straight from the field and into the pot. He said coming back was hell on his body—trying to eat a burger and fries made him sick for days. You gotta accustom yourself to all the crap Americans put in food."

"All right. I get it." Dean glanced back to Castiel, who was silent, leaning into the couch and watching them both with that impenetrable blue gaze. "We'll have to be careful with him."

"Yeah." Sam looked at the little boy for a long moment, just taking him in, then came to a decision and stood up, heading to the coat stand for his jacket. "I'll go shopping. You should maybe get him to drink something, to start with. There's OJ in the mini-fridge."

"Okay."

Dean watched him go, then looked back to Castiel, unaccountably nervous about being left alone with this little boy, so familiar and so strange, suddenly his charge to protect. "Well, I guess it's just you and me. How's that sound?"

Castiel blinked, calm and quiet, then smiled and reached a hand toward him, offering or asking, Dean wasn't sure which. He caught his breath and extended a hand in return, watching breathlessly as the child twined his small, soft fingers through his, and held on tight. "Good," the boy said. "Good."

TBC


	3. Chapter 3

**3**

The supermarket in the anonymous little Kentucky town where they'd landed was small, but well-stocked. Not a lot of variety in the brands, but a good supply of the basics. Sam found what he needed without too much trouble.

Several times, though, he blinked and realized that he was staring sightlessly at the eye-level items on the shelf, at the label of a box in his hand, at the prices in the produce section. His mind was still whirling furiously, struggling to make sense of the latest pile of weirdness that had been dumped in their laps. The universe had seen fit to give the Winchester boys an eight-year-old angel, and they hadn't a clue of what to do with him.

Well, he _looked_ like an eight-year-old, and apparently felt like one, certainly acted like one, but really, who knew how old Castiel actually was. Millions of years? Mere millennia?

Yep. Big load o' weirdness, dumped in their laps.

Still so many questions, so much badly needed information that they would have to pry from Castiel's obviously fractured memory. Still no knowing what had caused this, choice or curse or punishment or something else they couldn't guess. It was one thing for the universe to give them an eight-year-old, but there was that damning _angel_ tacked on to the end of that phrase, bringing with it such weight and mystery, such profound awe and unknown power, and a whole lot of scariness.

For now, though, they could at least feed the little human body. Sam pawed through the plastic shopping basket hanging off his arm, looking over the items he'd chosen. He was no nutritionist, and it had been a long time since he'd listened to Rick ramble about West Africa while stoned out of his Peace Corps-loving mind. But these ought to help, at least until they could figure out what to do.

Dean was going to bitch about it, though. Sam smiled softly, still looking down at his basket. He could hear Dean's voice, incredulous and faintly outraged. _Oatmeal? Rice? Freakin' organic apples? You sure you didn't accidentally go shopping for a hamster instead of a kid, Sammy?_

Dean…Dean was taking this entire situation so well. Sam didn't know why he was surprised. His brother had always had this tenderness in him, buried under layer after layer of machismo and profanity and gruff laughter, bone and blood and sinew to the person he had made of himself. But Sam remembered. He remembered childish nightmares, smoothed by a young hand. Remembered Dean's silly jokes and warm laughter chasing away the hurt of a bully's insult, making it meaningless. Remembered room after empty, formless room made into _home_ by the familiar presence of his big brother, filling them to overflowing.

Dean had taken the child Castiel into his arms as if he belonged, as he'd been waiting for him. It did funny things to Sam's heart, watching his older brother, so hurt and broken himself, interacting with the defenseless boy who had arrived on their doorstep. Dean was open with children in a way he couldn't be with Sam. He went to their level without hesitation, without thinking, instantly and overwhelmingly generous with everything he had to give.

Maybe it was selfish, but Sam couldn't help hoping that this entire thing, as bizarre and scary as it was, would somehow be good for Dean. Somehow give him a small measure of joy, a light to the dark path he'd been treading lately.

Castiel's sudden humanity might be choice or punishment or curse. Or it might be some strange kind of gift.

The synthesized classical music playing somewhere above Sam's head switched over to another track, and he looked up, blinking. He'd faded off again. There would be time enough to figure all of this out later—right now, a child back at the motel room needed to be cared for. Sam turned toward the cash register, suddenly lighthearted as he swung the basket by its plastic handles.

Then, in the corner of one eye, Sam saw a large, looming figure, a bald dark head, and all of his lightheartedness burned away in a flare of panic.

So much for figuring this out later.

X

Dean looked up from the couch as Sam unlocked the door and came in, stomping his feet on the mat, keys jangling in the lock. Two empty juice bottles lay on the floor by Dean's feet, and Castiel was curled up asleep with his head on the man's thigh. At Sam's noisy entrance the boy wiggled sleepily, eyelids fluttering, rubbing his cheek against Dean's denim-covered leg, but he settled again when Dean threaded his fingers through his dark hair.

"Dude, you shop like a girl. I was just about to give up and take Cas down to the diner for pancakes."

All but vibrating with agitation, Sam tossed his keys on the table by the door and thumped the groceries down on the table. "No. Pancakes are bad."

"What the hell, man? Pancakes are made of natural stuff. Butter and milk and flour, that's good for you, right?"

Sam paused to narrow his eyes at his idiotic older brother. "This is America. We put crap in the flour, too. And dairy is also hard on the sensitive stomach. He can't have pancakes."

"Oh, dude." Dean's face lengthened almost comically in dismay. "That has to be the saddest thing I've ever heard. Poor little guy can't even have pancakes." He looked down at the child sleeping on his lap and tenderly patted the unruly mop. "That's rough, kiddo. Sorry your life sucks so much right now. We'll make it better."

Sam started unpacking the groceries, ignoring the way his fingers shook. Nothing had happened. They were fine.

"Sam." Dean's voice had gone quiet, serious. Sam looked up, swallowing, and saw how intently his brother was watching him. "What happened, Sam?"

"I…" Sam rested one hand on the box of instant oatmeal packets, looking intently at his fingertips. His nails needed a trim. "At the grocery store. I thought I saw Uriel."

Dean sucked in a gasp, and Sam darted a look over to him. "It wasn't him. Just a big bald black guy. Freaked me out though. I was hoping to see Ruby—she can probably help with this thing." He laughed shakily and ran a hand through his hair. "Dude, how messed up is this?"

"That we're scared of angels and hoping to see a demon? Pretty messed up." Dean looked down at the boy. "I don't…we don't know what happened. We don't know if he really fell. Anna came down as an unborn baby. This is…different."

"Yeah, but we don't _know._ We don't know anything." He took a few deep breaths, feeling himself finally calming down. Just sharing his freak out with Dean was making it better. "Has he said anything else? Anything at all?"

Dean shook his head reluctantly. "Kid was tuckered out. After you left, it was like he ran out of batteries. The juice was a good idea, though—his stomach stopped growling and he seemed more comfortable. Then he just toppled over, pretty much." He considered, then went on. "So I got dressed and everything, let him sleep on the couch, and when I came back out, I think he was having a nightmare."

He began stroking his hand through Castiel's hair, slowly, almost meditatively, as if he'd been doing it for a long time. Sam came around the table and moved back to sit in the chair he'd been using before he went shopping. The child's face was smooth and peaceful in sleep, but his knees were drawn up to his chest, small hands knotted in fists under his chin.

"Did he…did he say anything?"

Dean's eyebrows pulled together over his nose. "Yeah, just a few broken syllables, but…it wasn't English. Wasn't Latin either, or anything else I've ever heard. Do angels have their own language?"

Sam just gave him an incredulous look, and Dean nodded. "Yeah, okay, how would you know that? How would anyone know that? It's a good guess though, right?"

"Sure. Why not?"

Dean huffed a laugh. "Believe me, I'm just as freaked about this thing as you are. The nightmare…it sounded like something bad. Something real bad. He was sweating and shaking, the works."

"Looks like you handled it okay, though."

"I guess." Dean looked down at his hand, now resting still and gentle on the angel child's head. Then he looked up at his brother, eyes suddenly wide. "Dude. What the hell are we doing?"

Sam didn't have an answer.

TBC


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N: **I'll be gone over the weekend for a family visit, so the soonest you can expect another chapter is Sunday. Thanks so much for your reviews, and believe me, long is NOT BAD. :D You make me think and laugh and blush, but most of all think. Though I may not use any of your ideas in the fic, they keep mine flowing. You guys are awesome! Have a great weekend.

**4**

_His vision was cloudy, fogged, chased by streaks of gray and black, midnight on the sharp edge of infinity. Clearest in his sight were eyes: red, black, yellow, white. The colors of bloodshed, pain, death, blindness and false life. "Run home to Daddy," whispered the sibilant voice of a serpent. Longing, yearning, wondering._

Tearing, shredding, pieces of soul flaking off at the edges. The pain of being unmade, his essence unraveling in milky spools, tattered and torn, spiraling away into the darkness. Agony incomparable, unknowable, spiritual force being ground into nothingness.

He had a mission. This Castiel grasped with the last of his fading strength. The mission, the quest, the lost children traveling alone the dusty roads of earth, bewildered yet undefeated, finding power in each other's presence. He could not abandon them.

Before the last of his essence could fall away, subsumed in the inky black, Castiel ripped off an infinitesimal bit of power and cradled it to his heart, a single grain of sand in a vast ocean of despair, shielded and shining. It was enough to hold onto a single thought, a single purpose, a single piece of knowledge. Dean Winchester and his current location, all he could grasp, just enough to carry him through.

Dean Winchester. Find Dean Winchester.__

That was what carried him through the white-hot pain, all the way to the other side. That was what kept him from letting himself dwindle into nothing, prevented destruction pure and absolute. Just a tiny golden spark against the endless black, constantly threatened with complete annihilation, but he gripped it tight in his fist and carried it through to the light of morning, when he woke on the side of a road in the body and mind of a child. Everything else was gone, far beyond the finding, but this he held.

This started him walking, kept him on his feet. Through all the confusion, the fear, the bright lights and loud noises and foul smells and endless strangeness of the material world, the sharpness of the wind on his skin and the bite of rock against his frail human feet. This and only this.

Find Dean. Get to Dean.__

It was enough. Only barely, but it was enough.

X

"Hey, hey, hey. Castiel, hey, little buddy, it's a dream, it's just a dream. Hey, Cas. C'mon, kiddo, wake up now. Just a dream. It's a dream. You're okay. You're okay."

The voice was deep and familiar, well-known, though the tone was a new one. Castiel was sure that he had never heard this human speak so gently before. Not to him, anyway. He opened his eyes and discovered that he was struggling to breathe, fragile limbs flailing without coordination, sweat stinging his eyes. Dean Winchester knelt over him, face wrinkled in concern, large hands gripping Castiel's shoulders.

There was a time when Dean had not been quite so large in his sight. The thought was fleeting, though, fading as the dream already was. Castiel knew abstractly that his new mind was simply incapable of comprehending what this meant, and he let it go without struggling. It was easier to just be who and what he was, which at this time was a human child.

A human child who was terribly afraid of something in the shadows, who trusted Dean Winchester with absolute conviction, and who, in this moment, was desperately in need of comfort.

Without hesitation, he lunged up off the couch and threw himself into Dean's startled arms, latching on and clinging with all the strength he had in him, slender as it was. Also without hesitation, Dean's arms circled around him, thick and strong, a shelter from the darkest storms. Castiel felt himself lifted and surrounded, completely covered, protected, and the last of the terrifying images began to drift away.

Before long, he believed Dean's soft, continued murmur, warm in his ear. Only a dream. It was only a dream. The belief came easily, and true, restful sleep followed soon after.

X

When Castiel woke again, it was to the feeling of hunger, a strange weakness that dragged at his limbs and sent swirls of nausea through his abdomen. He didn't remember feeling it before, walking the roads, but his mind had been focused on a single distant point for the entirety of that long, weary journey. Now, he marveled at the sensation, this human thing, the need for material substance to sustain a material body.

"Castiel? You awake?"

Castiel lifted his head from the firm warmth that pillowed it, only then aware that he had been resting with his cheek on someone's leg. It was not uncomfortable. He pushed his body up on elbows, hands, then felt himself sway, a sudden rush of dizziness bending his vision, ducking his head. Big, gentle hands closed around his shoulders and held him up, and he shut his eyes and breathed through the sickness, the ache of it.

"Hey, hey. You all right?"

He swallowed and nodded, then opened his eyes. His tunneled vision was filled with the concerned face of Dean Winchester. "Hurt," he said softly.

Another strange thing, the pitch of his voice, the smallness of it. Castiel tilted his head slightly, listening to himself. He wished he could talk more, so he could hear that strange voice for a little longer. So odd and new and interesting.

"Stomach hurts, huh? That's called hunger, kiddo. It means you need to eat. You're gonna have to get used to this stuff. When you feel pain, that usually means you need to change something. I know it's weird, but that's what being human is like."

Castiel nodded again, slowly. This was good information. He would try to hold on to it.

"Right now, though, me and Sam will take care of you, okay? Let us know when something hurts, and we'll try to make it better. You hear me, buddy?"

It took a few seconds, but Castiel found the word, figured out how to shape it. "Okay."

Dean smiled, a real one, gentle and true. It was nice. Castiel hoped that he would smile like that more often. He knew that Dean didn't often have enough reason for it, though. That was sad.

"Okay, good. Let's get you back over to the table now, all right? Sam made you some oatmeal." Dean made a silly face at that, scrunching up his nose and pursing his lips. "I know, I know, it sucks, but we gotta humor the guy, or he'll get all upset and mope around the room like a little black rain cloud. Trust me, you do _not_ want a Sammy-cloud raining on you."

Castiel giggled at this ridiculous image, and sneaked a peak over at Sam, who was also making a face at his brother's antics. He didn't look upset, though, just a little irritated. This was normal, Castiel knew. Sam and Dean irritated each other all the time. They didn't mean anything by it.

Dean picked him up and carried him over to the table as if he weighed nothing at all, then set him down in a wooden chair, a bowl of something thick and steaming directly in front of him. The brothers sat on either side of him, a strange little semi-circle almost like some kind of broken, half-made family.

Sam put a spoon in his hand. "Eat slowly," the younger Winchester cautioned. "Stop when you're full. Your stomach probably can't take very much right now."

Castiel leaned forward, face over the bowl so he could smell the new aroma and study the lumpy, glistening texture. It was a good smell, wholesome. His mouth flooded with moisture. He wanted to take more time to appreciate the new experience, but he really was hungry, and it smelled wonderful.

Negotiating the use of a spoon was also new, but hunger was a strong motivator. He figured out how to hold the utensil in one small fist, the big end outward, and then which side should be pointed up in order to hold food. The first bite of oatmeal was fantastic, and the taste blocked out everything else.

Castiel closed his eyes and squished it around in his mouth, savoring it. The goodness of grain, strong and nourishing, a slight bite of salt and the softening of sugar, the faintest hint of some kind of spice. Even without Sam's warning, he still would have eaten it slowly, savoring every sensation. He knew Dean thought this food was plain, uninteresting, but Castiel felt it to be one of the most beautiful things that had ever happened to him.

He was aware of Dean and Sam both watching him with careful regard, but it was a gentle attention, concerned only for his well-being, and he felt no self-consciousness. Sam had prepared this meal with such care, so aware of the fragility of this little body, and Dean had watched over his sleep, a steadfast guardian. He could not feel anything but safe with their eyes on him.

As Sam had predicted, less than half of the bowl was enough to fill him, and Castiel set down the spoon and carefully pushed the food to the middle of the table. He felt better already, the nausea gone, the dizziness receding. So strange, that such a simple thing could bring so much comfort and strength to the human body. He patted his belly tenderly, amazed that the small amount of food taken inside could make such a difference.

"Castiel…" Sam's voice was gentle, cautious. Castiel looked up to meet his eyes and nodded, letting him know that he was listening, ready to respond if he could. "There are more things we need to know. Can you answer some questions?"

Castiel thought back, searching for the word Dean had given him last time. "Try," he answered. The concepts still existed in his mind, some knowledge and comprehension, but few memories remained, and trying to shape what he did understand into human phonemes required great effort.

Dean nodded, accepting this answer for the promise it was. "We need to know if you're tapping into angel radio, the way Anna was. Are you hearing voices in your head? Do you know what's going on out there?"

Castiel turned inward, listening. Sometimes the inside of his head was all roaring and noise, confusion and pressure that was almost pain, but the only voice was his. He searched to the corners of his awareness, just to be sure. It took some time, and he was aware of Dean and Sam waiting patiently, watching.

At last he pulled back, drawing his sight back to the outside world, and shook his head, slowly and certainly. "Me. Only me."

The Winchesters exchanged a significant look, but Castiel didn't waste any effort trying to decipher what it meant. They often communicated just with a look, a small movement. It meant that they were together, standing in solidarity, and that was a good thing. Castiel stared at the pattern of the wood grain on the warped table, watching the way it swirled and eddied, following it with his eyes. It was beautiful, warm and brown.

"Do you know what caused this?" Sam asked. "Do you remember how you were changed into a human?"

A sharp stab of fear pushed through Castiel like a lance, and he gasped, shocked by the strength of it. Also a new thing, terror, and far less pleasant than the taste of oatmeal, the bright light of Dean's true smile. His hand flew to his chest, pressing as if to hold it all in. It was all the worse for not knowing the reason for it. He couldn't tell why he was afraid, why this question aroused such unthinking fear. He only knew that he was frightened, to the point that it was almost a physical thing, squeezing his lungs in iron fingers.

Again he felt large hands on his shoulders, warm and strong, anchoring and sheltering. It was different this time, though—the hands didn't feel the same. Castiel blinked past the white spots in his vision and raised his head, feeling the fright recede. He saw that it was both of them, this time—Dean's hand on his right shoulder, Sam's on his left. Their faces were the same in worry, green-brown eyes wide and liquid with regret.

"That looked like a flashback," Sam said softly, the words not really meant for Castiel.

Dean nodded. "Sorry, Cas. We didn't mean to hurt you. You just hold on to that for now, all right? If you figure it out, though, please let us know."

Castiel nodded and closed his eyes, still pressing a hand to his chest, feeling his breath rush in and out in ragged swoops. Some part of him was aware that this was not a good thing at all. He chose not to feel that, chose instead to concentrate only on the hands that held his shoulders, the protection and warmth and care.

It felt a little bit like love, human, passionate and bright-burning, a miniature sun. That was new, too.

TBC


	5. Chapter 5

Surprise! It's not Sunday yet. :) Enjoy, but beware of the cuteness quotient. It's reached near-lethal levels. I swear I'm not dong it on purpose, and I'm not quite sure how it keeps happening.

**5**

"God, Dean, if you don't want oatmeal, walk down to the diner and get some pancakes or something. Just stop bitching about it to me. _Please."_

Sam didn't even look up from his work, bent over the complimentary pad of motel paper with a pencil in one hand, scattered sheets discarded around him on the table. Dean had been searching through the groceries in the cupboard one more time in a vain hope that his brother's choices would have changed since the last time he checked, that there would be a miraculous box of Pop-Tarts or a bag of mini powdered donettes or just, well, _anything_ but healthy grain stuff and organic apples. No such luck.

"Are you writing a grocery list for next time?" he asked. "'Cause if you are, I got some suggestions. Cross off 'bananas' or whatever and write bee, ee, ay, ar, cee, ell, ay…"

This time Sam did look up, just long enough to glare. "If you want a bear claw that bad, go and get one. It's not my job to make sure you have your daily allowance of saturated fat and refined sugar."

Dean could not prevent his eyes from betraying him—they slipped over to his bed, where Castiel slept curled up on Dean's pillow, covered with a spare blanket from the closet. After that awful-looking flashback, which had sent Dean's heart into his throat and had Sam, too, gasping in unexpected empathy, the little guy had pretty much collapsed. He was probably still worn out from the long walk to get here, too. In a few hours they would wake him up so he could eat again, keep getting his body used to food.

But in the meantime, Dean couldn't bring himself to leave the room.

Sam followed Dean's gaze, and his eyes softened suddenly in understanding. Before he could do more than open his mouth, though, Dean grumbled and turned sharply away, moving back over to the two-burner stove and the pot still resting on low heat there. "Fine, fine, I'll eat the stupid oatmeal. At least you got sugar, so I can fix it up some. Smarty-pants killjoy, enemy of all that is tasty and delicious and remotely worth eating." He continued muttering vague insults and imprecations as he fetched a Styrofoam bowl and scooped oatmeal, adding spoonful after spoonful from the bag of brown sugar Sam had bought.

He stuck a spoon straight up in the middle of the gluey mess, like planting a little flag, and moved to the table to spy over Sam's shoulder, stifling a yawn as he went. "What're you working on, anyway?"

Sam didn't try to hide it, but leaned back so Dean could look at his little pile of sketches. Looked like a bunch of different kinds of herbs and berries, and a few other, less natural things. Dean recognized a bunch of them, but others were new. He pushed a finger through the pile of half-drawn discards on the side, and finally got it.

"You're trying to remember what all was in that super-special mojo bag Ruby made to hide us from the angels and demons, right? Shoulda known you'd pick the thing apart before burning it."

Sam shrugged, unrepentant. "More knowledge is never bad. And I was right, wasn't I? We need one again."

"Ruby was a witch, dude. The kind who sells her soul to the Pit for more power. There's probably a ritual or spell that goes along with making those things, too. I doubt that a special blend of herbs and spices is gonna cut it."

"It can't hurt, though." Sam looked up at his brother, a wrinkle of concentration between his eyes. "At least until we know exactly what's going on, it's better if no one can track us down."

Dean had to nod at that, though he pressed the heel of one hand against his forehead, already feeling a headache coming on. No idea if they needed to be hiding from angels or demons or both or neither, and he wasn't really sure he wanted to find out. Something bad had happened to little Castiel, that was clear, whether before or after he'd been…changed.

He stood there and choked down his oatmeal, watching his brother sketch. Sam had always been good at the visual-recall thing, and it had helped them more than once. The sketches were rudimentary, but clear, and it was kind of cool watching pictures shape gradually under seemingly-random strokes from Sam's pencil.

Sam looked sharply up at him. "Dude, if it's that boring, go somewhere else and quit bugging me."

"What?" Dean blinked, completely nonplussed.

"Dean, you've been yawning every few seconds for the last, I dunno, ten minutes or so. It's annoying, and you're throwing off my concentration." He paused, looking more carefully into Dean's face. The irritation slid away. "Oh."

"What?" Dean asked again, stupidly. He realized that he wasn't quite following the conversation.

"Did you get much sleep last night? Like, at all?"

Dean turned away to toss his empty bowl in the trash. "I slept. I'm fine."

Truth was, the soft knocking on the motel door had woken him during one of his few stretches of decent rest. Even when the dreams held off, his sleep was still usually pretty shallow and restless. It had been like this for a long time, though. No big deal. He'd catch a nap later and be fine.

Sam sighed. "You can rest, man. Castiel doesn't need anything at the moment, and I'll figure out our next move. There's no reason for you not to get some sleep now, if you can."

Dean stood by the trashcan, blinking at his brother. All of that seemed to make perfect sense, on the surface, but something itched at him, deep down. _I'll figure out our next move,_ Sam had said. Wasn't that usually Dean's job? Wasn't it supposed to be Dean's job? He couldn't remember when that had changed.

Sam chuckled softly. "Seriously. Go take a nap. You look like you're about to fall over." He flicked his fingers toward the beds. "Or at least, you know, go sit next to Castiel. Make sure he doesn't have any more nightmares. He trusts you."

Okay, well, _that_ Dean could do. That made sense. Look out for the kid; make sure he's okay. That could be Dean's job. Part of him was aware that this logic was a little screwy, but he was too tired to figure it all out right now. Sam sat straight-backed at the table, loaded gun resting on the chair nearby, and he was between the door and the beds. Sammy could handle anything that happened—he'd been handling everything that happened to him for a while now.

It made Dean kinda sad, but it was the way it was.

At last, he nodded, accepting. "Okay. I'll look after Cas. Thanks, Sammy."

Standing between the beds, Dean hesitated, looking first at the whiskey bottle on the nightstand. A little buzz would help. A little buzz always helped. Not enough, not near enough, but a little, and sometimes a little help was all Dean could ask for or expect. Even taking the slightest edge off the blades that continually cut through him was a good thing.

But there was Castiel's soft, young face, peaceful on Dean's pillow, so sweet and trusting, so God-damn innocent that it brought an ache rising in Dean's chest, pure and undeniable. For some unfathomable reason, this strange, lovely kid trusted Dean, trusted him absolutely. He couldn't betray that, not in the smallest way.

He gave the whiskey a regretful look, saying farewell for the time being. Later the dreams and memories might get to be too much, and the drink would not be merely a slight assistance but an utter necessity. For now, though, he would handle it. For Castiel's sake.

The next question to consider was the one of beds. This one bothered Dean a little more. Because Castiel was in his bed, which was fine, of course, the kid deserved to sleep in a bed. But Dean couldn't sleep on the couch, because that was too far away. And if he slept on Sam's bed, where would Sam go? No way the Sasquatch would fit on that couch. It had barely been comfortable for a little kid. It might even have contributed to Cas's nightmare—the thing looked pretty torturous.

Again, part of him was aware that this logic was completely whack, but he was tired, dammit. And he needed a nap. And he just needed to figure out where to do it.

Well, Castiel was little now, and Dean's bed was a queen. There was plenty of room for two. Pleased with his reasoning, Dean moved to the other side and plumped up the remaining pillow, then flopped down on his back, eyes already drooping. He was heavy enough to make a dip in the mattress, and Cas made a little noise in his sleep and rolled toward Dean, surrendering to gravity, small dark head landing on Dean's shoulder with a tiny, painless thump.

Dean wrapped an arm around the kid and pulled the blanket over to share—it was only fair—yawned one more time, and was out. No nightmares this time. He would make sure of it.

TBC


	6. Chapter 6

Still going strong, but I don't know how long I'll be able to keep up this pace, so enjoy it while you can.

**6**

Dean had a new favorite game. He called it Expanding Castiel's Vocabulary. Sam called it Getting Us All Sent to the Bad Place.

It started out innocently enough. When they woke from their naps, Dean and Castiel didn't immediately get up, instead lying there comfortably on the bed, staring at the ceiling for awhile. Sam, at the table researching herbs on his laptop, could hear a quiet murmur of conversation. Dean's voice pattered on, telling some warm, meandering tale, and Castiel occasionally answered with short, hesitant words. Then Dean got his idea.

"Y'know, buddy, talking might get easier for you if you practice it more. How 'bout we do this? I'll say what things are, and you repeat after me. Just do your best, all right?"

The child's assent was hesitant, but willing, and Dean started off, pointing at various objects around the room. Lamp, table, bed, blanket, shirt, pillow, ceiling, wall, door. Sam kept waiting for Dean to run out of items they could see without getting out of bed, but Dean was endlessly creative.

By the time Sam had gotten down to the last three sketches, Dean was holding his hands up front of his and Castiel's faces, the boy doing the same, head still resting on the man's shoulder.

"And this is called a pinky," Dean said.

"Pinky," Castiel echoed dutifully.

"This is a thumb."

"Thumb."

"And we already said the pointer or index finger. Sam!" Dean called. "Is there something people call the finger next to the pinky?"

"Um, fourth finger?"

"Ring finger, that's it! This is called the ring finger, Cas."

"Fourf," Castiel said. And he giggled, small and bright.

Dean laughed, loud and delighted. "Yeah, okay. You can call it the fourf finger if you want. And this is the bird."

"Bird?" the child repeated doubtfully.

"Not bird. _The_ bird. Say it with me."

"The bird."

"Yeah, you got it!"

Sam didn't have to look up to know what was going on. Instead, he ducked his head further down behind his laptop, cheeks flaming. "Dean! Stop corrupting the angel boy!"

"This isn't corruption," Dean said, sounding affronted. "It's education. The world's a mean, nasty place, and you gotta know how to give people the bird."

Dean Winchester's philosophy of life, summed up in one pithy sentence.

Maybe begging would work. "Please, Dean, don't," Sam pleaded, putting as much sincere anxiety into his voice as possible. "We know God exists now, for real, and I'm pretty sure He wouldn't approve."

"Yeah, well, if I ever see Him, I'll give Him the bird, too."

Sam felt his shoulders hunch up, and he involuntarily glanced toward the ceiling, waiting for lightning. "Just…teach him something else for now. Please?"

"Okay, okay. Don't get your panties in a bunch." A rustle of clothing, and Dean started on a different tack. "This is called a paperclip. It has many uses."

"Paper. Clip," Castiel said.

Sam sighed and went back to searching for herbs that matched his sketches. It was tedious work, scrolling through multiple indexes and lists, some of which didn't have pictures and only vague descriptions, but he was narrowing it down. Next would be the equally tedious task of calling around to different local suppliers, looking for someone who carried the needed ingredients. They might need to make multiple stops.

"Oh, there goes that bear again. Hold on, Cas, I'll get you some more oatmeal."

The next time Sam looked up, his brother and their little guest were both sitting on the bed, Castiel slowly making his way through a bowl of oatmeal, Dean munching on an apple. The vocabulary lesson had paused for now, which Sam was grateful for. They looked very peaceful and content, side by side, relaxed and enjoying their food. Neither one had been troubled by nightmares. Sam was even more grateful for that.

"So what's our next move, Sam?" Dean asked, meeting his eye frankly.

Sam made his way over to sit on the other bed, facing them. "Well, after we put together that hex bag… We need to find out what's going on. Maybe see a psychic again."

Dean shook his head firmly. "Not Pam Barnes. She has a thing against angels, and especially Castiel. And, I mean, justified, but no. Not going to her."

Castiel looked up at the mention of his name, blinking at them both, but didn't say anything. Sam looked at the child, so innocent and young and helpless, and couldn't imagine anyone holding a grudge against him. But he had still burned out Pamela's eyes, even if he didn't remember it. Even though he probably hadn't meant or wanted to do it at all.

"Well, she's the closest one we know, just up in Illinois, but she's not the only one. What about Missouri?"

Dean's jaw worked. He still didn't like going back to Lawrence, though they had been there more than once, now, and even visited Missouri a time or two. He nodded reluctantly, though.

"Or, of course, there's always Bobby…"

Dean's eyes lit up. "Yeah, Bobby!" He was always up for visiting Bobby. Grinning, he turned to Castiel. "Do you remember Bobby? You made him go to sleep." He demonstrated, leaning his head on his pressed-together hands and closing his eyes for a second.

Castiel tilted his head to the side, forehead wrinkling. "Bobby?"

"Yep, Bobby. He's a good guy. I bet you'll like him." Dean ruffled the boy's dark hair, making it stand up even more. "I bet he'll like you, too."

Castiel smiled softly, pleased to see Dean so happy, then turned back to his oatmeal.

Sam shook his head gently. "Bobby knows a lot and he can find out a lot more, but we don't really have anything for him to go on, yet. The more we can figure out before taking this to him, the better."

Dean nodded impatiently, still stuck on _Bobby Bobby Bobby._ "Okay. So, Missouri first, then Bobby. Sounds like a plan."

"Well, herb shops first. Then Missouri, then Bobby. Yeah."

"Oh, and Cas needs some better clothes. It's getting cold out and he doesn't even have socks." Dean reached out to pinch the shoulder of Castiel's gray t-shirt between thumb and forefinger, one finger almost slipping into the hole worn through at the seam. "Where'd you get these, kid? Do you remember?"

The boy looked down, squinting at his almost-empty bowl, mouth pursing in concentration. He looked back into Dean's face and gestured with both hands, tracing a vague oblong shape. "T…trash? Trash. Many. Hiding."

Dean nodded, now holding the child's shoulder in a gentle grip, rubbing with his thumb. "After you woke up like this, you hid. Probably behind some kind of building, right? And you found a pile of clothes someone had thrown out. That was lucky, huh?"

Castiel nodded gravely. "Lucky." Then he tilted his head, struggling for another word. "Bless…blessed."

"Yeah. Blessed." Dean looked imploringly to Sam, as if asking for permission.

Sam drew in a deep breath, wondering when Dean had surrendered control of this situation to him. It wasn't that he minded—Dean deserved not to have to make decisions all the time, especially when he still felt so shaky and damaged himself. But he was surprised by his brother's acceptance of the current status quo. It was as if having a little kid to look after had let Dean permit himself to release everything else, for once trusting Sam to take care of it.

It was another gift Castiel had brought them. Another blessing.

Holding all of this to his heart, Sam simply nodded. "Right. While I'm shopping for herbs and other ingredients, you two can go to a Goodwill or something. We should get going soon, though. The quicker we get away from here, the better. You know, just in case."

Dean's eyes sharpened, and he nodded. Just in case. Just in case something else was on the horizon. Just in case some dark figure was chasing their little guest, tracking his steps to the flimsy protection of this motel. Just in case they really did need to be hiding from angels or demons or both.

Both Winchesters found themselves staring at their small charge, watching him slowly eat, savoring every bite. He had come to them for protection, entrusting his life to them, placing his safety and well-being gently in their hands without a quiver of hesitation. He was theirs, now. Both felt the connection twining between them, fastened low in the gut, a strong cord that would not be broken.

Castiel felt the eyes on him and looked up, spoon stuck in his mouth, dark blue eyes wide at the attention. He seemed to sense that something was going on, that something was passing between them, but he didn't know what. So he just smiled, slow and sweet, so like a corner of sunlight peeking from behind a bank of clouds. The room was brighter for it.

Sam and Dean glanced at each other, and a moment of understanding flew between them, solid and sure. This boy, this angel, this human child…he was small and innocent and defenseless, and he trusted them. They would do anything to keep him safe.

Anything.

TBC


	7. Chapter 7

**7**

They bundled Castiel up in clothes that were miles too big for him, a flannel shirt of Dean's draped around him like a blanket, Sam's cavernous hoodie over that, socks pulled over his bandaged feet then rolled and held with rubber bands they found in the kitchenette's junk drawer. ("And this is called a rubber band." "Rubber…band." "Later I'll show you something fun we can do with those. Sam won't know what hit him." "Dean, I can hear you chuckling evilly to yourself. Stop it.")

The motel room was paid through the next day, so the clerk was surprised when Sam went to the office to check out early, but there wasn't any trouble. Dean sat with Castiel in the car, still pointing at things and saying words. ("This is a gear shift." "Gear shift." "This is a tape deck." "Tape deck." "This is the only good music in the world." "Music.")

Leitchfield, Kentucky was only half an hour away down the state route, but Dean kept getting distracted pointing at things for Castiel to parrot. The boy sat in the backseat with his nose pressed to the window, watching the countryside flow by with wide-eyed fascination, responding absently. After Sam threatened to grab the wheel and take over for the fifth time, Dean settled down a little, though he checked the rearview mirror far more often than was necessary. He just regretted that the scenery was so drab, all grays and browns and beiges, too late for autumn glory and too early for white-draped winter. Castiel didn't seem to mind, though.

Sam's first shopping stop (Madame Rubin's Odds n' Ends) was only a few minutes from a secondhand clothes shop, so Dean stopped off with Castiel and let Sam take the car with the admonishment that he was not, under any circumstances, to purchase any crystals. Inside, the cashier lady accepted Dean's half-assed story about his young cousin losing everything in a fire with barely a blink, too busy cooing over "the little darling" holding Dean's hand with white-knuckled intensity. Castiel smiled back and relaxed slightly, shoulders coming down from around his ears, though his grip around Dean's fingers did not loosen.

The middle-aged woman blinked dazedly at the boy's smile, stars in her eyes, but Dean couldn't blame her. He'd already figured Castiel's smile for a lady-killer. She was delighted to help them find everything they needed.

"He's a quiet dear, isn't he?" she asked at one point, digging in a pile of shoes for something that might fit. "What a little angel!"

Dean gave her a sharp look, glancing up from checking the soles of a little pair of sneakers against Castiel's feet, the boy sitting on a waist-high counter to make the process easier. "Yeah, quiet."

"He hasn't said a single word! Doesn't he talk? At all?"

He frowned, realizing that yeah, it was pretty weird for a seemingly eight-year-old boy to be so utterly silent. This was not the kind of attention they wanted to draw. "Uh, psychological stuff. Fire. You know. We're working on it. Saying words, working up to sentences."

Castiel patted his chest. "Okay, Dean. Good."

Dean gave him a grin. That was the closest the kid had come yet to piecing together an entire thought all on his own. "You'd better believe we're good. We're freaking awesome. Okay, how 'bout we keep practicing? These are shoes."

"Shoes."

It turned out that a secondhand shop was a veritable treasure trove of objects that needed to be named and cataloged. After they had found a few outfits and gotten Castiel looking a little more normal, they wandered around, digging into forgotten corners while they waited for Sam. Dean led the way deep into the dark end of the musty store crowded with racks and bins and articles hanging from overloaded hooks, into the smell of mothballs and seasoned leather, continually picking things up and putting them down seconds later. Cas followed, keeping two fingers hooked through his belt loop as if worried that the man would wander off.

"This is a toaster."

"Toaster."

"This is a friggin' ugly lady's handbag."

"Bag."

"This is a jar of marbles."

"Marbles."

"This is…you know what, never mind what that is. Hey, dude! It's a cowboy hat!"

"Cowboy hat."

Dean beamed down at his little shadow for that, more proud than he could really articulate. That was the first three-syllable phrase to come out without any apparent effort. He placed the hat (bright red and studded with rhinestones) on the kid's head, biting his lip to keep from laughing when the brim fell down somewhere around his nose. "Oh, yeah, that's totally awesome. We're definitely keeping that one."

Castiel pushed the brim of the hat up with one finger to reveal his eyes, unconsciously echoing who-knew-how-many old westerns Dean had watched in an endless parade of ratty motel rooms and busted-down tenements. And really, Dean wasn't one to coo over puppies and babies and rainbows and shit (unlike the cashier lady up front, who was still watching them fondly), but there was absolutely no way he could deny that that little gesture was freaking ridiculously adorable.

God, what was this kid doing to him? He was turning into a huge softy. Sam would laugh and laugh.

Then he noticed that Castiel was shifting from foot to foot, a vague grimace of discomfort shadowing his face under the bright red brim. "Hey, what's wrong? You bored of this?"

The boy shook his head distractedly, already leaning toward another bin to study the strange and varied articles within. Nah, this kid didn't get bored, like, ever. His feet were still shifting restlessly, though, new-to-him shoes scuffing against the dirty linoleum.

Oh, crap. No calluses. How long had they been walking around the back end of the store without taking a break?

No sooner had the thought occurred to him than Dean scooped the kid up in his arms. Cas's legs instinctively rose to straddle his waist, and Dean shifted him into a comfortable hold. "Hey, your feet hurt, don't they?"

The boy nodded, looking away, too-big hat askew on his head. Dean muttered and plucked it off, tossing it back in the corner. "You gotta tell me this stuff, buddy. Remember what I said about pain? Pain is bad. If you hurt, we need to change something." He squeezed the kid to him, trying to capture his attention.

Castiel finally looked into his face, little face solemn at the mild scolding. "Feet hurt."

Dean sighed. "Okay, that's good. You told me and you even used words. Thanks, Cas. We'll figure this out, okay? We're both learning." He looked back to the front of the shop, where the cashier lady was bent over a magazine. "Dammit, where is Sam? It's totally true—he _does_ shop like a girl."

X

Sam stepped out of Madame Rubin's chased by the heady scent of hemp and incense, clutching his armful of herb packets and other items. Okay, he had bought _one_ crystal, but only because it might be useful for a ritual he'd been studying. Dean couldn't complain about that one. It was not a girly purchase.

He hurried around the corner toward where he'd parked the Impala, aware that he had been lingering over the shelf of spell books for quite a while longer than they had merited. You never knew when you'd find something useful buried in with the tourist crap, though. Surely finding a whole wardrobe for a kid would take longer than that, right?

Ruby was standing by the car, arms crossed over her chest. Sam started and almost dropped several fragile bundles, then held himself still, drawing a deep breath to steady himself. "Ruby! I've been hoping to see you."

Her face opened in surprise, arms dropping from her defiant pose. "Really? The way you guys took off, I figured you wouldn't take too kindly to me popping around again."

"Yeah, well…" Sam fumbled one-handed for the keys and brushed by her to open the trunk. "We kinda need your help."

When he turned back, Ruby's eyes were shuttered again, the momentary vulnerability shifted away. "With what?"

He paused, his hand on the trunk lid. "You haven't…you haven't heard anything?"

"About what?"

Sam swallowed, holding back the somewhat hysterical laughter burning in his throat. Ruby hadn't heard anything. Yet another difference between this situation and the last one. What did it mean?

"C'mon, Sam. You're not making a lot of sense here."

He stood still, looking at her. He'd been hoping for her help earlier, but that was when he thought that she could tell them something. Him telling her about this, though, was an entirely different matter. It was one thing for him to trust Ruby with his life, even with his brother's. But the life of this little boy?

That was something else.

Before he could stop her, Ruby circled around to the trunk and started pawing through the packets of herbs, lifting one to sniff it, just touching others. As soon as he realized what she was doing, though, he grabbed her wrist, pushed her away, and shut the trunk with a resounding bang. Ruby stood there, defiant, wide pink lips hard and tight. "You're trying to put together one of my extra-crunchy hex bags. Why?"

"Just a precaution. You know how we Winchesters are—don't like anyone on our tails, no matter what color their wings are."

Her nostrils flared, eyes sparking. "It's not like a cookie recipe, Sam. You can't just pour everything into the bowl and expect it to turn out okay. There are procedures to follow, words that have to be said."

He nodded shortly. "I kinda figured. You want to help me out?"

"Even then, it's not like this is some magic fix-all. Demons and angels will notice the void, too. _Especially_ when it's you and Dean falling off the radar screen. Everyone wants to keep their eyes on you two. Everyone."

Sam hesitated, biting his lip. That actually made a lot of sense. Damn it. "What if I said that it's not for us?"

"Not for…" She paused, studying him, dark eyes darting quickly back and forth. Her next words came slowly, wondering. "What is this about?"

Sam took a deep breath, and held it, not sure what to say.

TBC


	8. Chapter 8

**8**

As soon as he saw the corner of that beautiful, gleaming black hood roll up in front of the store, Dean hurried out the door in a clatter of bells and headed for the Impala. He still carried Castiel propped on his right hip, plastic bag full of clothes in the opposite hand. Sam was already jogging around the car to meet them, eyes wide and hands spread, looking a little out of breath. Dean halted, confused.

Before he could ask what was going on, Sam was already talking, words tumbling out of his mouth in a hasty assault. "Dean, I promise, I didn't tell her anything. I didn't say a word."

Dean leaned back a bit, reflexively tightening his arm around the boy. "Didn't tell who what?"

Sam pressed his lips together and tilted his head back behind the Impala. Dean flicked his eyes over…and saw Ruby, standing next to the driver's side door of a rental sedan parked right behind Dean's baby. He felt his eyes narrow almost involuntarily, taking her in.

"She followed me. I was going to go in the clothes shop and tell you to just hang out for awhile until I could get rid of her, but you came out too fast. I'm sorry, Dean."

Dean shook his head minutely, his gaze locked on Ruby's. Every muscle in his body had gone taut, vibrating with adrenaline and unease. Yeah, he had been coming to appreciate the help she could offer, and he owed her for saving Sam's life while he was down under. He had even begun to see her as a sort of ally—the kind you kept in front you so you could avoid a knife in the back. But that was when it was just him and Sam. The situation was a little different now.

Castiel could feel the tension in him, and he squirmed against Dean's arm, stiff around his slender waist, one shoe kicking painlessly at Dean's thigh. Dean held him tighter and continued to stare.

Ruby slid easily around her car, eyes trained on the boy. Her expression seemed neutral, but Dean didn't trust it. She had no more reason to like angels than Pamela Barnes did, and she was a lot more dangerous than a cheerfully horny psychic.

"This is who you wanted that hex bag for?" Ruby asked, gaze flicking briefly to Sam before returning to the boy. "This is who you're so eager to protect?"

None of them said anything—the answer was obvious. Sam turned to face her, shoulder to shoulder with Dean, Castiel held between them. The child had gone still and silent, staring back at the demon.

Ruby stepped up on the sidewalk, now standing only a few feet away. "A kid, Sam? Really? Who is he?"

"Just our little cousin," Dean said easily. "Came into our care recently, you know, the whole tragic circumstances thing. We're fond of the little guy—don't want anyone messing with him. So yeah, we wanted one of your super-duper mojo bags. Is it so surprising that we would want to do everything possible to take care of a little kid who got stuck with us? Really, Ruby, what kind of monsters do you think we are?"

Her lips went thin, forehead wrinkling, and she took another step closer, staring even harder. Dean scowled and swiveled on his heel, putting Castiel partly behind Sam's shoulder and arm. Sam smoothly took half a step closer, hiding the boy more effectively.

Ruby stopped moving and held up her hands. "Hey, c'mon. I could ask you the same question, here. I've never screwed you over, and I'm not going to start with a kid. I'm just not quite buying your bullshit story, that's all. You know it stinks from a mile away, right?"

Cas wriggled in Dean's hold, and he looked over in time to see the kid tilt his head almost all the way over, peeking around Sam to continue looking at Ruby, one small hand fisted in Sam's jacket sleeve. Just his usual unquenchable curiosity, or did he recognize the demon girl? Castiel's face showed no distress, just that little crease of interest between his wide blue eyes.

Dean almost snorted a laugh when Ruby mirrored him, tilting her head to look into the kid's eyes, long dark hair sliding over her shoulder with the movement. He had to admit, though, that there was nothing threatening in her posture. Just the same kind of curiosity and interest, though there was certainly nothing innocent and naïve about this woman.

Then two things happened almost simultaneously. Ruby started and jerked back a step, stumbling over her own feet, eyes flipping to dead black in what appeared to be an entirely reflexive reaction to something. The instant the black appeared, Castiel's hands flew out and grabbed Dean's bicep, digging deep and gripping tight, and he hid his face against the back of Sam's shoulder, suddenly shaking uncontrollably.

An almost-instinctive growl ripped out of Dean's throat, and he dropped the shopping bag and brought his arm around to wrap around Castiel's back, stepping closer to Sam so the kid could leave his face pressed where it was while Dean held him tight. Dean could feel the tension in his brother ratchet up about five hundred notches, his stance toward Ruby suddenly even more aggressive than it had been. Sam held himself still, though, for the boy's sake.

"What was that?" Sam demanded. "Ruby? What just happened?"

Ruby leaned back against her rented car on both elbows, breathing ragged and quick. Her eyes were wide, but they looked human again, dark brown instead of black. "Sorry," she breathed. "Just…wasn't expecting that. I know who he is, now. I get why you want to protect him so bad."

Dean's lip curled in a snarl, but he kept quiet, too busy rubbing Cas's back, trying to help him calm down. Sam shook his head, shaggy hair bouncing. "What makes you so sure?"

"It's the eyes," she said shortly, then leveled a disapproving look at him. "Windows of the soul, they say. And those are some damn unforgettable windows. How did _you_ figure it out?"

Dean had to shrug, reluctantly giving her that one. It wasn't as if the boy was going around announcing, "I am Castiel, angel of the Lord," anymore.

He bent closer to the kid, letting his nose touch the trembling temple. "Hey, bud," he murmured. "You okay? Another memory, like a nightmare?" A flashback. Damn, they couldn't get even a few hours without suffering another one.

Castiel nodded shakily, cheek rubbing against Sam's shoulder blade, then turned to rest his forehead against Dean's. "Dark," he whispered, barely audible. "Eyes. Dark. Black."

Sam fumbled his hand backward to grip the kid's ankle in silent support, still watching Ruby, not looking away. Dean nodded carefully, keeping Castiel pressed gently between him and Sam. "I know, kiddo," he murmured. "I saw a lot of that, once."

But Castiel shook his head, just a little, just once, still pushing tight against Dean. "Others. Yellow. Red. White. Eyes."

Dean pulled in a breath. "In your memory?"

"Yes. Many eyes."

"Okay. I gotcha. Thanks for telling me."

Dean raised his head to glance over at Ruby, meeting her eyes. She sat limply against her car, looking tired and defeated, and…something else. Something he looked away from, disbelieving. Castiel's head drooped on his shoulder, a weary sigh escaping parted lips.

"I can help you," Ruby said. "I can help you make that hex bag. And…and I think I know what happened to him."

Dean jerked his head around to stare at her, and he could feel the sharpening in Sam, too, the quick intake of breath and the sudden stillness. "You said you hadn't heard anything."

She smirked, not managing to look quite as sardonic as she probably wanted, still too shaken by the unexpected revelation of Castiel's eyes. "Well, I didn't know what you were talking about then, did I? I said I think I know. I think I know something, anyway, though I'm guessing that this wasn't quite what Hell was going for."

Sam's gigantic forehead wrinkled at this. "What are you talking about?"

Ruby shrugged, hands lifting from her car's hood and thunking down again with a sharp _smack._ "Not really a story to tell out on the street, Sam."

Dean looked around, suddenly aware of the spectacle they must be making. The street was quiet, middle of the afternoon on a workday in a white bread town, a brisk November day that had the few pedestrians he did see hunching in their jackets, probably wishing they had worn heavier clothes. It had been warmer this morning.

He glanced down at Castiel, saw the kid yawn and snuggle his head down in the crook of Dean's shoulder and neck. The kid didn't seem scared anymore, just tired. Everything that existed in Dean rebelled against giving Ruby even the tiniest bit of trust that could be levered to harm this boy in any way.

But just the fact that she knew who he was, and where, was probably harm enough.

"What do you think, kiddo?" Dean asked, almost reflexive after a day of sharing every passing thought with the silent boy. "Think we should let Ruby into our little band of amigos? Just for a little while?"

Castiel stilled for a moment, apparently thinking. He raised his head and pushed against Sam's arm, and the younger Winchester glanced down and moved, letting the boy look at the demon woman again. Cas rested there for a time, watching, blinking slowly. Then he looked into Dean's face and nodded solemnly.

"Little while," he said.

Dean sighed. This whole thing was freaking uncomfortable. But if the kid was okay with it, he would find a way to deal.

"For a little while," he confirmed. And he tried to ignore the way Ruby smiled.

TBC


	9. Chapter 9

**9**

It was time to hit the road again, which Dean was fine with. It was his natural habitat, the road, and he liked it and was always happy to return to it. In fact, he would be ready to go _right now,_ if it wasn't for the fun-sized angel currently clinging to him, both arms wrapped around his neck.

"All right, Cas, you can let go now. Just another little trip in the car. Everything's okay now, really. C'mon, I can't drive and hold you at the same time."

Castiel tightened his arms, just short of strangling, wrapping his legs further around Dean's waist. He seemed so tiny and frail, but there was a lot of power in those little muscles. Dean tugged at him carefully, his hands feeling large and clumsy on the small torso, and tossed a pleading look to Sam. His brother just shrugged. Ruby waited in her rental, tapping impatiently on the wheel.

"Buddy, I get that you're still a little freaked out, but I need to drive the car now so we can get where we're going and Ruby can maybe help us figure out how to help you, all right? You gotta sit in the backseat 'cause the front isn't safe for kids, but Sam and me will be right with you the whole time. Cross my heart and hope to die."

Shit. Rational arguments weren't working. He had hoped to appeal to the ancient, powerful, inscrutable angelic being he knew was in there somewhere, but apparently right now the scared little kid was in charge. Dean sighed in exasperation and let his arms hang loose, not holding the boy up anymore. Castiel clung to him like a monkey, which probably looked utterly ridiculous. Was this what parents put up with all the time? No wonder Dad had decided to go the drill sergeant route. So much less frustrating.

"I could drive," Sam offered.

Dean squinted a glare at him. Yeah right. Like that would ever happen when Dean wasn't falling over from exhaustion or blood loss. Or, you know, dead and in Hell. When Dean could drive, he drove. It was as simple as that.

"Hey," Sam said, face brightening. Dean could almost see the light bulb going off. "How about we try this, then?"

Sam stepped closer and held out his arms, laying a dinner plate-sized hand on Castiel's back. The kid held still for a moment, thinking it over, then gave a tiny nod and reached back, letting Sam detach him from Dean's body. His skinny arms and legs immediately re-wrapped around Sam's neck and waist, though, the boy simply transferring his weary clinginess from one brother to the other. Dean stared, astonished but quite, quite happy.

Sam gave him a quirky grin, lifting only one corner of his mouth. "It was worth a try. You drive. I'll sit with him in the backseat."

"Yeah, okay. That'll work."

X

They could have made it to Lawrence in a single eight-hour stretch of driving, but it had been a long, rough day, and Dean started looking for a likely motel just past the Missouri border. Sam sat in the backseat with Castiel, suddenly taking on the unfamiliar role of caretaker and human-shaped pillow. Dean's glances in the rearview mirror weren't always suspicious, aimed at Ruby driving behind them—often they were amused, Dean smirking at his little brother's awkward efforts to consciously imitate what Dean did as easily as breathing.

Castiel seemed too tired to engage in his usual fascinated staring out the window, preferring to lounge bonelessly against Sam, tucked under his arm. When the car warmed up Sam helped him out of the fleece coat Dean had bought for him at the thrift store, privately marveling at how small it was. _(All_ of Castiel's clothes were small: coat, shirt, jeans, even his shoes. It shouldn't have been such a surprise to Sam, but it really, truly was. He was shocked and helplessly charmed by it all, though he felt incredibly huge and hulking in comparison.)

The boy seemed to get even more comfortable, then, burrowing down into Sam's side and tugging the man's arm around himself. He held Sam's hand in both of his, playing with his fingers, rolling them up and letting them fall open again, poking at his palm as if amazed at the size of it. Then he started repeating the lessons Dean had taught him, folding down all but one finger, showing Sam what he had learned.

"Pinky."

Sam nodded, biting his lip to keep from laughing. The child sounded so utterly earnest, as if he felt this to be very important information that needed to be shared. "Yes, that's a pinky."

"Big pinky." Castiel held up his own little finger for a side-by-side look.

"Yeah. All of my fingers are big."

Castiel let that one go and went for another. "Thumb."

"Yes, that's my thumb."

"Fourf finger."

"That's right."

"The bird."

Sam almost choked, trying to hold it in. "Middle finger. You should just call that the middle finger. And only hold it up to people who are really, really bad, okay?"

Castiel looked up at him, taking this in with grave attention. "Okay."

"Here, let me show you something else." He turned his hand over and carefully grasped the boy's fingers in his, sharply aware of how tiny they were against his, then closed his thumb and forefinger around the pinky joint nearest Castiel's palm. "That bone in there, you feel it? That's called a metacarpal."

By the time they found a motel, Castiel was fast asleep, cheek turned against Sam's chest, snub little nose resting just over his heart. Just as well. Both Winchesters hoped that he would sleep through the discussion to follow. Whatever tale Ruby had to tell, it wasn't going to be about puppies and cinnamon buns.

Dean got a room, and Sam carried the sleeping boy into it, aware of Ruby following at a discreet distance. Dean had arranged for a pull-out cot, but Sam didn't bother with it, just tucking Castiel into the bed he knew Dean would be using later. The two of them were going to end up snuggled together anyway—better to head off the nightmares before they came, if possible. Then they let Ruby in and drew chairs from the room's table into the corner farthest from the child, instinctively keeping their voices low, though they were already tense with anticipation.

"All right, what do you know?" Dean asked the instant Ruby's butt hit the seat. "What happened to Cas?"

She took a few extra seconds to settle in, wiggling around to a comfortable spot and eyeing Dean defiantly, but she didn't delay any longer than that. "I don't know why he's a kid now. That's a new one on me. Chances are that no one else will be expecting it, either, so you're probably about as safe as you can expect to be, under the circumstances."

Dean relaxed slightly, gaze slipping reflexively over to check on the child, but Sam just leaned forward. "What can you tell us, then?"

"Well, you know Alastair, the knife-happy big kahuna…"

She had to pause for a shudder, hunching in on herself, and Dean's eyes darkened, too. "Yeah, I know," he said sharply, then immediately quieted. "Anna's nuclear grace bomb hit him."

Sam ground his teeth together, silently wishing. Another head he wanted bloody on a plate.

Ruby's eyes were surprisingly empathetic. Or maybe it wasn't so surprising, really. "Yeah. You were hoping he'd been destroyed, right? I'm afraid not. Just banished. And he was _pissed."_

Dean folded his arms over his stomach, looking sick. Sam wanted to reach over and grab his shoulder, something, but he knew the gesture wouldn't be appreciated. "What does this have to do with Castiel?" he asked instead.

"Well, Alastair has this thing about angels. He really, really likes killing them. Word was that when he got out, that was one of the big things he was looking forward to. Castiel was the first one he got his hands on." She shrugged, going for nonchalance, but it didn't quite work. "And then you, you know, put a crowbar in his plans."

"Yeah," Dean said. "I don't exactly feel bad about that."

Ruby nodded. "Oh, neither do I. But when Alastair got banished, then, there was just one thing he wanted. To finish the job. He couldn't gather the power to get back, but that didn't stop him from communicating with the rest of the Pit. So he…well, he offered a reward."

Sam sat back in his chair, blinking. "A bounty."

"Yeah, sort of. Hell is chaotic—there's a hierarchy, but it shifts constantly, and everyone's always trying to move up. Alastair…he's one of the heavies. Any kind of reward from him would be…substantial."

Dean swallowed. "So he basically sicced the entire Pit on one angel."

"Yeah." Ruby faced him frankly. "Last I heard, a bunch of demons caught a chance when Castiel was isolated, and they ambushed him. It was a mob—dealers and traders, lowly imps, high-level tempters and traitors. They were saying he was destroyed, but no one was sure how. They couldn't prove who killed him—at least five different heavyweights are claiming the prize, and it's getting nasty. It must have been…it must have been a feeding frenzy. Honestly, I'm shocked that he's still alive at all, in any form."

Dean's head was turned toward the bed, gazing fixedly at the sleeping boy. His jaw worked slowly, eyes hard with this new knowledge. "And now he's just a kid, an honest-to-God human kid, and he has all that locked up in his memory. Damn."

Sam drew in a ragged breath. "We need that hex bag."

Ruby met his eyes, nodding solemnly. "Yeah. Eventually they're gonna work out that no one actually did the deed, and they're gonna be after him again. You're going to have all of Hell on your asses. Again."

Dean looked back in Ruby's face, just to give her the full force of his almighty smirk. "Well, at least we have experience."

She nodded cheerfully. "And hey, no one knows what he looks like now! Maybe you'll actually manage to survive, you massive idiots!"

He nodded back, just as full of false cheer. "No one except you!" A flicker of movement almost faster than the eye could follow, and Dean was across the small space separating them, bending down with his mouth next to her ear, one hand fisted in long, dark hair wrenching her head back to expose her neck, her own knife held to her throat. Dean's voice was abruptly low, lethal. "Is it gonna stay that way?"

Ruby held statue-still, not even her throat moving. The single word was pushed out on a breath of air, stirring nothing. "Yes."

Dean held frozen for another moment, pressed the point of the knife just a little bit closer, indenting the skin but not drawing blood. Then he released her and stood back in one smooth move, knife held ready. His smile was sharp as cut glass, twice as deadly.

"I'm not completely sure I believe you, Ruby. But consider this an act of faith." He brandished the knife, then sheathed it, quick as a snake striking. "Don't betray my trust in you."

She held just as still as she had when the knife was at her throat, eyes inky black, fixed on Dean. Sam sat motionless, unsure of what he should do. Unsure if he should do anything at all.

A small shudder passed over Ruby, and she seemed to draw back into herself, the black pooling away, head lowering to stare at her fists, resting tight on her thighs. "You sure are a pissy little brood hen, Dean Winchester. Thought you were going to peck my wrist, there, for a minute."

Dean just shook his head slowly from side to side. He didn't even look angry. Just very, very firm. "This isn't about me. It's about a helpless little kid, a sweet, gentle little boy who never did anything to hurt you or me or anyone in the world. Don't you dare do anything to screw him over. Don't you _dare."_

She raised her head to stare at him, a little of her defiance back. "I wasn't planning to. I already said I would help you with the hex bag, didn't I?"

Dean nodded easily, falling back to sit in his chair again. "Sure. Now that I know more of the story, though, I just want to be sure you won't be getting any ideas about that reward."

"None whatsoever." Ruby bared her teeth. "I don't _want_ it. How many times do I have to prove myself to you?"

Dean slung one arm over the back of his chair, deliberately relaxed, though Sam could see the tension across his shoulders, in the way he held his head. "As many as it takes, Ruby Tuesday. As many as it takes."

She looked to Sam, as if hoping for back-up, but he just stared back, mouth shut, jaw hard. "As many as it takes," he echoed.

Because Dean was right. This wasn't about them. When it came to Castiel, all bets were off, and all previous favors owed and given were null.

TBC


	10. Chapter 10

**10**

_In the dreams, he always said _No.__

It didn't matter how they tore and cut him. It didn't matter what visions they showed him, what faces they wore, what relief they offered. He knew the price and he refused to pay it. He said No.__

There was blood, and pain, and fire. Claws, knives, whips, instruments that had long been extinct on earth, many more that had never existed on earth. Bloody smiles stretched long beneath black eyes, grotesque twisted flesh and sublimely beautiful visages smiling beatifically as blood arced and spattered in artistic flights. They did their worst and he screamed, of course he did, he writhed helplessly and screamed until his voice gave out, and he suffered and suffered and suffered. But when the question came, he always said No.__

He retained that last fragment of self. He did not let them transform him. He stayed a Winchester, stayed a man, incapable of saving people and hunting things, but at least able to say that he had not done another soul harm. He said No_ and he said _No_ and he did not become a demon._

Then he woke and remembered, and his mind was filled with only one word.

No. No. No. No. No. Please, God, no.__

His mind echoed with that one syllable until the word became meaningless and all he could do was seek escape. Because there was one time when he didn't say No,_ and that one time had negated all the rest and made them meaningless._

X

Dean woke with a whimper and a gasp, instantly stifled, instantly ashamed. Such a weakling—such a coward. He squeezed his eyes shut, refusing to look, feeling the ridges of the cot digging into his back through the thin mattress. He pushed back, seeking the pressure, the discomfort.

Only then did he became aware of the fact that his head was being cradled, and soft fingers were stroking his forehead. He forced his eyes open then, heart in his throat, hoping that it wasn't what he suspected. Castiel's solemn little face bent over his, golden light from the half-open bathroom door bathing his face in a smooth radiance. He had climbed up on the cot and pulled Dean's head into his lap, and now he was trying to comfort him.

_God._ Dean didn't deserve this, didn't deserve any of this. Not only had an angel saved him from Hell, but the same one had come to him as a child, entrusted himself to Dean's tainted care. It was too much, too strange, too great a gift.

He couldn't let the boy see that, though. Castiel had made his choice, as ill-advised as it was. Dean couldn't scare him, couldn't let him see just how terrified he was, how certain he was to screw this up. He'd already let Sam down in the worst way possible. He couldn't do the same to this innocent child.

"Hey, Cas," he said thickly, throat tight around remembered screams. "Sam still out with Ruby?"

The boy nodded, running his fingers over Dean's forehead, into his hair, over and over.

"You should go back to bed, buddy. Did you have another nightmare?"

He tilted his head slightly, still staring into Dean's face. He had yet to blink. "You. You hurt."

Dean sighed and let his eyes fall shut, unable to look at that earnest expression, to meet those compassionate eyes. "I'm fine."

"No." Castiel's hand paused on his head, pressing down. "No, Dean."

Frustration in the young voice, and Dean opened his eyes again, regretful for bringing this to his little friend. "You should go back to bed," was all he could say.

"Sad." Cas pressed his other hand to his chest, his face twisting up with this feeling, new to him. It must have been so strange, so overpowering. Dean's heart fluttered in his chest, pained that the boy had to experience this, too.

"Sad," the kid said again. Then he placed that hand on Dean's cheek. "You."

"Yeah, kiddo. We are. We're a couple of the saddest sacks in the world."

"No." Again the frustration. He went through it again, placing his hand against his chest, then on Dean's face. "Sad. You. Sad."

A huge lump materialized in Dean's throat, and he swallowed painfully, barely able to speak around it. "Oh. Sad for me. You're sad for me."

Castiel nodded, tears glistening in the yellow light. Dean surged up to a sitting position, careful not to smack their heads together on the way up, then turned and pulled the kid into his lap, hugging him tight. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry you're sad."

The boy squirmed in his hold, and Dean, shocked, immediately let go. But Castiel only pulled back enough so that he could look up into Dean's face, still leaning against him. His scowl managed to be both prodigious and adorable, and he bounced a small fist off the man's chest. "Dean! _Listen."_

Dean blinked, but answered with due haste. "Okay, okay. I'm listening. What do you have to say to me?"

The kid sighed, small shoulders slumping, and he raised one hand to press his heel against his temple, face long and mournful. "Here. Many." Then he touched his fingers to his mouth. "This hard."

Dean's eyes widened, understanding dawning. "You have many thoughts in your head, but saying them is hard."

Castiel nodded and let his head rest on Dean's shoulder.

"Okay. I'll do my best to translate. You're doing great, really. We can work on verbs and prepositions later."

The boy paused, gathering himself. Then he laid a hand flat against Dean's chest. "Sad okay."

"It's…it's okay to be sad?"

A small nod, and he pressed his hand in a little harder. "Anger not."

"It's not okay to be angry."

"You." He looked up, grimacing, eyes narrowed, determined to make this clear. "You. Anger not."

"It's not okay to be angry at myself?"

"Yes." Castiel fluttered his hand in the air, moving sideways, indicating something else. "You. Bad….things. Bad things."

"Bad things happened to me."

"Yes. Sad okay." He pressed his fingers to his temple. "I…" Again he stopped, trying to pull it in, drag it out, make it clear, trying to find the words to express himself. "I remember. Dean. I remember."

All of the air deserted Dean, rushing out of his lungs as if he'd been thumped against a wall by the most powerful poltergeist in the world, though the blow was purely mental. His eyes were so wide they hurt, and his mind was full of white sparks. "You…"

When he could breathe again, he grabbed Castiel's shoulders, fingers shaking, and pulled him around so he could look in the little face. "You remember getting me out of Hell? You remember that? God, Castiel, I can't…"

The boy grimaced, again struggling for words. "Not…clear. Not all. You. Remember you. Sad. Hurt. Good. Good, Dean. Good." His hands reached back, clenching in the fabric over Dean's chest, pulling and twisting, doing everything he could to make Dean understand. "Good. Good. You. Good."

The kid was crying now, tears falling down his cheeks one after another, eyes scrunched up, turning red, and Dean… Dean couldn't handle that. He couldn't.

He pulled the boy to his chest again, holding him close, bending his head to press kiss after kiss into the dark, unruly hair, rocking them where they sat. "Shh, it's okay. It's okay, Castiel, I get it, you said it, I understand what you said. Shh, buddy, don't cry. It's okay. You did good. You told me what you wanted to say. I understand you. Shhh. Don't be sad. Don't be sad for me. I'm okay. You saved me. Remember? You saved me. Everything's okay now. I'm okay."

Dean said everything he could to comfort the boy, to convince him that he'd done right, that things were okay. But he couldn't say he believed him. He couldn't say that he believed what Castiel said, that he believed he was good, that he deserved to be saved, deserved any of this. It would be a lie. He couldn't, he wouldn't, he would never lie to this kid. So he said other things, hoping that they would be enough.

Castiel eventually cried himself out and just leaned limply on Dean, breathing hard with only the occasional hiccup. Dean held him close, unutterably sorry that he had been cause of such pain, such sorrow. Being human sucked sometimes.

The boy burrowed his head into Dean's shoulder, then flopped an arm up, pointing at the bed he had abandoned. "Sleep now."

Dean sighed. "Yeah, that sounds like a great idea."

"Come, Dean. Sleep."

"You want me to stay with you?"

"Yes." Castiel leaned over, pushing a hand disdainfully into the thin mattress under them. "This bad."

A laugh bubbled out of Dean, soft but genuine. "Yeah, it's bad. That we can agree on."

The boy sighed, exasperated with Dean's stalling. "Sleep now."

"Okay, okay. I gotcha."

He carried Castiel over to the bed and got them settled just in time for his brother to come back. Sam shut the door behind him quietly, yawning and fumbling around in the half-light without turning on a lamp, trying not to wake them. He had a hex bag in his hand and a wearily triumphant look on his face.

"Dude," Dean said. "We're awake. Don't kill yourself trying to go to bed."

Sam turned to face him, grinning in the dimness. "Hey, Dean. Knew you wouldn't bother with the cot. You and Castiel gotta take care of each other."

"Yeah." Dean didn't bother to tell him that he'd tried the cot and found it a less-than-ideal arrangement. The big dork was already smug enough. Castiel sniffled and hid his face against Dean's shoulder. "Yeah, we take care of each other. Go lie down before you fall down, bitch."

"Jerk."

Sam paused long enough to set the hex bag on the nightstand between them, and then he did what Dean told him, only taking long enough to kick off his shoes. He was snoring almost before his head hit the pillow.

Dean and Castiel followed him soon enough.

TBC


	11. Chapter 11

**11**

Dog set his feet on the material world and shook his body, settling in. It had been long millennia since the last time he stepped into this plane—last had been in an age of heroes, now long faded into myths that few knew and fewer believed, though there were always some who held to the old truths and did not accept the new ones. He blinked his eyes, feeling the slide of leathery flesh over the gem-like surface of his eyeballs, and began to absorb the ambience of his new hunting ground.

Dog knew that he had a different name, or rather, many names in many languages, some long and some short, all murmured in fear, accompanied with superstitious motions to ward away an accidental summoning. But Master called him Dog, and so Dog he was, though nothing like the other canine creatures who ran in packs and trolled the underworld, baying for blood. Master's word was everything to Dog, was earth and sky and sea, more solid than all of the planes and their inhabitants, more precious than the most tender meat, and more highly treasured.

Master had given him a job. Dog shivered with happiness at the prospect. So long he had been only a gate guardian, but now at last he was allowed to stretch his wings again. And the end of this hunt promised a most delicious meal, one flavored with divine spices. Long, long it had been since Dog had rent a servant of the High One limb from limb, and anticipation was a jewel around his neck, hot and gleaming, driving him on.

The material world smelled different now than the last time Dog had been here. No more scent of offal strong in the air, but another smell, just as foul, but of something brought from beneath the earth and changed through human means. His claws scraped and dragged on a hard surface beneath his feet, and though not painful, it was annoying. Dog had been looking forward to the feel of earth, where he could press and gouge and leave his mark. This substance was too hard for that.

The buildings around him were shaped strangely, too, but Dog had no use for such human things, more intent on snuffling the air. The High One's servant had fallen near here, so all the accounts said (tortured out of twisted mouths in screams and falls of blood, Dog panting by his Master's side, watching with all his animal glee). Yet there was no divine scent here. It did not make sense.

Dog padded around in a circle, thin wings shifting behind him in a papery rustle. He smelled the stink of human and beast, more of that processed earth-stuff, a waft of human foods mingling in the air (completely unappetizing—Dog did not understand how they could eat the green things that grew from dirt when so much delicious flesh was available, nor why they chose to char that flesh in fire and flames until no flavor was left). No angel, though, fallen or otherwise.

He whined low in his throat. Master would be so displeased. Only minutes into his new hunt and already the fear of failure sent him to the ground, crouching and shivering. Master's displeasure was as terrible as his pleasure was wonderful, and Dog feared the former as passionately as he yearned for the latter.

No, no, there was time yet to find the way. Dog pushed himself to his feet, jointed limbs moving in defiance of earthly physics, and stalked among the buildings, smelling and smelling. He had to find something, some clue to show the way. People meandered about, chasing their incomprehensible errands, their funny, useless dreams and desires. None saw him, as his existence was impossible. If he could pause, he would devour two or three for a snack, and his mouth slavered deep with the thought. But time was not his own, and Master did not want him to eat until he finished the hunt. Hunger would make him even more implacable.

Behind one of the buildings, Dog found a pile of the strange skins the humans used to cover their flesh. A faint scent caught his interest, and he dug his snout into the pile, snuffling and tearing to discover the cause. Nothing there, and the smell was as human as any of the others that layered the air. But something different existed here, something that caught Dog's attention.

Dog was an intelligent monster, though most did not think it. He could almost feel Master's approving pat when he finally realized what the strangeness was.

The human who had left this scent was new. New and clean and innocent.

An impossible thing. Just as impossible as Dog himself. Therefore, their origins had to be similar.

Dog huffed a smoky laugh, steam trailing from his nostrils to rise wavering in the chilly air. The servant of the High One had been made into a human. Fully human, and therefore no trace of divinity to mark him, but too strange to the material world to blend in fully. No matter how he tried, he would stand out in the crowd, too naïve, too selfless, too compassionate, all the foolish things that Master despised and mocked, all clinging to this new human life.

Dog found the scent again and breathed it in, memorizing it. Clean and fresh and sweet, thus horrible and burning against his delicate nose. Already he missed the beautiful scent of brimstone and ashes and blood, missed Master's smile and the chains where he perched at home, listening to the screaming of the damned.

All the more reason to end this hunt and return. Dog raised his head, closing his eyes and bringing all his concentration to bear on one sense. So many strange smells twisted and clung together in the air, clumped and confused, but this one was a silver thread. It led down the road, going west. The trail was clear.

Dog let his mouth curl up in a ferocious smile, baring his teeth, not in aggression but in joy. And he bounded off, following the scent.

X

Something about Dean seemed off the next morning, but Sam couldn't put his finger on what it was. He had been up late with Ruby, measuring things, reciting spells, following esoteric procedures to create an object that probably shouldn't be allowed to exist, honestly. But all through it a corner of his mind had been thinking about his brother and Castiel, hoping that both were safe from nightmares and visions. He had been happy to find them together when he returned, apparently comfortable and at ease, but now he wondered if his sleepy, fogged vision had missed some sort of clue.

Breakfast was oatmeal again, though Sam added a couple packets of the instant stuff to the pot, just enough preservatives and other crap to help Castiel's body start to get used to it. The meal was quiet, but Sam noticed the change between his two companions. Yesterday, Dean had been the one keeping an eye Castiel, making sure that he was okay. Now their positions were reversed, Castiel watching Dean with grave attention, while the older Winchester seemed to be avoiding the child's gaze.

It was disconcerting. Sam really didn't know what to do about it.

They stopped for gas somewhere in west Missouri. Sam took Castiel for a walk around the parking lot to stretch their legs while Dean went inside, paying for the gas and finally acquiring one of his precious bear claws. He could see Dean flirting lazily with the clerk, but even through the plate glass window and twenty feet of distance, it was obvious that his brother's heart wasn't in it.

They paused, and Castiel, still holding Sam's hand in a firm grip, bent down to study the cracks in the sidewalk, tracing their uneven path with a curious finger. Sam watched him, hesitating. But if anyone was his ally in this, it was this little boy.

"Cas, did Dean have a nightmare last night?"

The boy held still for a moment, then straightened, looking up into Sam's face, eyes large and sorrowful. He nodded solemnly. "Dean sad. Hurt."

Sam sighed. "I know. There's a lot of bad things in his head."

"Yes." Castiel looked down, scuffing his shoe against the concrete. "I...try. Try help. Not...not help. Not...enough."

"Oh, Castiel..." Sam's chest hitched, tight with pain. He bent down on one knee and pulled the kid into a tight hug in one smooth motion, almost without thinking. "I'm sure you were a big help. Dean...the bad things are just too big for him right now. It's gonna take time, that's all."

Castiel nodded against Sam's chest, then drew back, looking into his face. "Dean good."

Sam sniffed, suddenly and inexplicably teary. "Yeah, yeah he is. Oh, Cas, I don't know what Dean did to deserve an angel like you, but he's one lucky son of a bitch."

The boy smiled, quavering slightly, then touched Sam's cheek, wiping away the slight sheen of moisture. "Dean good. We help."

"That's right, buddy. We'll both help him. He's a good man, even though he can't see it right now."

Sam pushed himself to his feet, looking back to his broken brother. Yeah, he had an ally now, and he couldn't have asked for a better one.

After a moment he felt a small tug on his hand, and looked over to find Castiel shifting uncomfortably from foot to foot. "What's the matter? Do your feet hurt?"

The boy shook his head, then looked up to meet his concerned look. "Racehorse."

Sam blinked. "I'm sorry, what?"

He grimaced, shifting again, bending slightly at the waist. "Racehorse, Sam. _Racehorse."_

"I'm sorry, I don't..." Sam nearly choked. "Oh, Lord, no. That's what he taught you to say when you have to pee, isn't it?"

The child nodded, looking very distressed now. "Racehorse!"

"He couldn't have taught you to say 'bathroom?' Or even just 'pee?' God, my brother is insane." Sam couldn't help laughing a little, though the chuckles tore at his chest, shaking something deep inside. "Okay, I get you. C'mon, let's go inside and find the men's room."

Castiel sighed in evident relief. And then he sneezed.

Sam looked down at him in dismay. "Oh, crap."

TBC


	12. Chapter 12

I've received the gift of some truly, truly amazing fanart for this story. I'll put a link in my profile--be sure to check it out!

**12**

Dean looked up when Sam pushed through the gas station's door, the signal box above emitting an obnoxious buzz. He was carrying Castiel, big hands wrapped around his torso under the little arms, holding the kid slightly away from his body. His expression was harried, his eyes wide. "Dean! Go get his spare clothes!"

Dean opened his mouth, then paused, taking in the poor kid's dejected face and the wet patch spreading on both thighs beneath the hem of his long coat. "Oh," was all he could say. "Okay."

A quick glance at the clerk had her shoving over his purchases, bright pink lips twisting up in something like shock. She probably thought he had a gay boyfriend. And a kid.

Whatever. He kind of did. The second one, not the first.

Dean returned to find the door of the men's room propped slightly ajar, Sam's voice murmuring soothing phrases inside. A cautious peek revealed Castiel standing on the closed toilet and leaning with one hand on the grody tiled wall, Sam doing what he could with a handful of paper towels and a trickle of warm water from the tap. Dean shouldered inside and aimed a hesitant smile at the boy.

"Hey, buddy. Don't worry—we'll get you cleaned up. It's all right."

Cas heaved a sigh, his entire body moving with it, and his face was so resigned, so glum, that it tugged at something deep inside Dean's chest. Sam threw a pissy glance over his shoulder, though Dean didn't get why his little brother was so mad at _him._ "Geez, Dean, you couldn't tell him to say 'bathroom' when he has to go? It had to be 'racehorse?' What is wrong with you?"

Oh. Well, this whole thing was sort of hilarious, then. Dean couldn't stop the grin that spread over his face, though he was aware that it was entirely inappropriate. "Of course I didn't tell him to say 'racehorse.' I told him to say 'I have to pee like a racehorse,' which is a perfectly legitimate way of expressing your needs."

"Not when you can barely put three syllables together, you jerk!"

Oh shit, Sam sounded _really pissed._ Which was a sort of a funny way to think about it, given the current situation. But what was up with Sam being so quietly furious about what amounted to a slight inconvenience? It was as if he had poured all of his frustration and restless energy with something else, something much bigger, into this little linguistic mess.

"Hey, I can take care of it," Dean offered, suddenly just wanting to make it better somehow. "I helped him dress yesterday and this morning—I can do it again."

"No, no, I got it." Sam waved a hand distractedly. "Just give me the clothes and wait outside."

Dean knew how to pick his battles, and this was not one he was going to win. He handed over the plastic bag and stepped out, sparing another sympathetic smile for the boy. Cas watched him leave with large, soulful eyes, but didn't say anything.

He leaned on the wall next to the restroom door, listening to his brother quietly take care of yet another mess he had caused, however inadvertently. Castiel's face stuck in his mind, so utterly and heartbreakingly miserable. God, the poor kid had been through an awful lot of crap in his short existence as a human. First wandering alone and hungry for two days, getting his feet all scraped and bruised, then experiencing terror, sorrow, pain, grief, all in these enormous, powerful thunderstorms that swept him up and shook him in their grip. And now humiliation and embarrassment, too.

They still didn't know exactly what had happened to make Castiel into a human child, but Dean couldn't imagine that he would have chosen it willingly. Not if he knew it was going to be like this.

"Want Dean."

Castiel's soft voice drew Dean from his musings, and he straightened, turning toward the door.

"It's okay, Cas. He didn't go anywhere." Sam's voice was soothing, but still a little rough under the edges with residual anger.

"Want Dean."

Well, there was no way Dean could ignore that. He pushed his way back inside. Castiel sat uncomfortably on the postage-stamp counter next to the lime-crusted sink, Sam tying his shoelaces with large, careful fingers. He was cleaned up, now, but misery still lengthened his little face.

When he saw the older Winchester come in, he immediately reached out with both arms, fingers flexing impatiently, face opening in relief. "Dean!"

"Yeah, I'm here." Dean barely waited for Sam to step aside before sweeping the boy up in an embrace, snugging him close against his chest. Cas gripped his shoulders, burying his face against Dean's neck. "It's okay. It was my fault. I'm sorry you have to put up with me."

Castiel shook his head furiously at that, then pulled back to look in his face, small forehead creased with wrinkles, mouth drawn up in a tight bow. Now he got to watch his little angel experience anger, too, it looked like. "No, Dean. Not okay."

"What's not okay?" Dean drew his head back in genuine confusion. God, would this kid never stop surprising him? He was aware of Sam standing still at his elbow, listening intently.

"Told you. Anger not."

"Right." Dean deflated. "You want me not to be angry at myself. Sorry, kiddo. I wish I could stop just because you ask me to."

Castiel paused, tilting his head to the side. He pressed two fingers to Dean's forehead, then pulled his hand back and stared at them in obvious disappointment. "Human," he said, almost to himself. It was the first time he had sounded sad about it.

Dean couldn't help but chuckle at that. "Did you want to put me to sleep? Send me back in time?"

Castiel shook his head, glaring at him again. "Want you. Want you…okay. Want you okay, Dean."

The response was automatic. "I'm fine."

"No, you're not." It was the first time Sam had spoken since Dean had come back in. The words were quiet, firm. No more anger there, but the lilt of sadness was strong and undeniable, a match for Castiel's.

Because now there were tears in the little boy's eyes again, and Dean hated that. He hated that it was for him, that he was the cause of this. Hated it almost more than he hated the fact that he had caused the same sorrow in his little brother, the person he would give anything, anything, everything (and had), to protect. _They weren't supposed to hurt for him._ That wasn't the way it worked.

But they were, and it was, and Castiel put his little hands on Dean's cheeks to hold him still, so like Anna, and he flinched again, he couldn't help it, and the child's dark blue eyes brimmed and overflowed. "Love you, Dean," he said, and it was both a whisper and a scream. "Love you. Want you okay."

Another human emotion, another human pain, and this was the worst of them all. Dean's breath stopped, jammed in his throat. He couldn't look in the boy's face and he couldn't look away, so he raised a shaking hand and pressed it to the back of Castiel's head, gently pulling him in to hide his face on Dean's shoulder. His vision grayed out for a second, and when it came back his butt was against the sink and Sam's arm was around his shoulder, holding him up, his other hand resting on Castiel's back.

"Breathe, Dean." Sam's voice was urgent, his breath warm against Dean's ear. "C'mon, man, you gotta breathe. Was that really such a shock to you, you dumbass?"

One more wrenching hitch of the chest, and Dean managed to pull in a breath, thinking fuzzily that _of course_ they were doing this here, in a filthy one-pot men's room filled with the stench of piss and mildew in a gas station in west Missouri, of course they were, it was the Winchester way. Stupid and insane and so, so far from normal, but all they had, all they were allowed. "Yeah," he breathed. "Yeah. I'm a dumbass."

Cas turned his head against Dean's shoulder to look at Sam, sniffing noisily. "Love you too."

"I know, buddy. Thanks." Sam patted his back.

The kid sneezed all over him.

Sam sighed and went for more paper towels.

X

"I forgot about antibodies," Sam said later, back in the car, once they had settled Castiel in with the coloring book and crayons Dean had bought for him, along with a travel-sized pack of tissues.

Dean blinked at the non-sequitur, but kept his eyes on the road. "What now?"

"All that worrying about Castiel getting the right stuff to eat, and I forgot that his body doesn't have antibodies. His immune system is brand new. He has no defenses against anything at all. No childhood sicknesses, no vaccines…" He gasped sharply. "God, he could get _polio."_

Dean glanced over at that, saw how his brother's eyes were wide at the thought. "I don't think that's really the first thing we need to be worrying about."

Sam settled back in the seat. "No, no, you're right. More like all the cold and flu germs that are always around everywhere. I mean, I don't know how many strains there are, but there's a lot. We get years to build up tolerances before we go to kindergarten or anything, and he's only been here a few days." He ran an agitated hand through his hair, mussing it up all over the place. "Damn it, anything could happen to him. Anything at all."

Dean bit his lip, determined not to sigh. He just couldn't deal with even more things to worry about right now. "Look, let's not borrow trouble. He's had a really horrible couple of days—of course his body needs some time to recover. It's just some sniffles right now, isn't it? Whatever happens, we'll deal with it."

"Yeah, yeah." Sam looked ahead, letting his head thump back against the leather upholstery. "How far to Lawrence? Missouri will help us figure things out."

"Maybe fifty miles." As much as Lawrence and Missouri Mosely both unnerved Dean, he had to admit that it would be good to have someone else to lean on, just for a little bit. This whole thing was just a tiny bit overwhelming. Ruby's hex bag (currently tucked in Castiel's coat pocket with a firm admonition never to lose it) did a little to ease his mind, but there was still way too much that they didn't know, and didn't even know that they didn't know.

He glanced in the rearview mirror, as he reflexively did every few seconds, it felt like. Castiel was still bent quietly over his book, coloring away. Dean still couldn't quite wrap his head around what this amazing kid had told him back there in the gas station bathroom, but he felt like he owed it to him to try.

Castiel believed in Dean with everything he had. The least Dean could do was try to believe in Castiel.

TBC


	13. Chapter 13

**13**

Of course Missouri opened her front door seconds before they got there. They halted uncertainly a few feet away, Sam and Dean standing shoulder to shoulder, Castiel shyly hiding half behind Dean, though still peeking around him in curiosity. She waved a hand imperiously, holding the door with the other. "Well, come in if you're going to, you silly boys. I'm not standing here for my health."

The brothers glanced at each other, but obeyed, Castiel holding onto Dean's belt loop. Inside, Missouri bustled around taking their coats, ordering them to wipe their feet, leading the way into the living room. She took the hex bag from Castiel's coat pocket and gave it back to him, though, and the boy looked up at her, then jammed it into the right-hand pocket in his jeans, where it made a conspicuous bulge.

In the living area Missouri paused, facing them, her hands on her hips. Her face seemed strangely older than the last time they'd seen her, a little more careworn. The past few years must have been rough on psychics as well as hunters, so much more supernatural activity than usual, so much more evil to contend with. Her house looked much the same though, crowded and cozy and scattered with occult knick-knacks.

"Well, you boys have been through the wars, haven't you?" She shook her head, though Sam didn't think it was disapproval with them. Still, he felt Dean's shoulders hunch up slightly. Dean never knew quite how to deal with Missouri.

But her eyes softened, and she reached forward to grip his arms. "Dean, honey, you gotta stop hatin' on yourself for that. You really think your daddy woulda done so much better than you?" A solemn shake of the dark head. "Mm-mm. He was a fighter, John Winchester. He wouldn't have held still for anything, let alone something like that."

Dean flinched. "You mean you know…"

"'Course I don't _know,_ child. For all I know, your daddy's experience was completely different from yours in every way. But I knew John, and I know he would have taken any opportunity he could find to get loose and deal some damage. How do you think he managed to get out of that gate when it opened? He wasn't wearing no chains then, was he?"

Dean swallowed, his breath hitching in his chest. Sam leaned in a little closer, letting their shoulders brush together, and on the other side Castiel wrapped both arms around the struggling man's waist.

Missouri smiled at them both, wrinkles appearing beside her eyes like kindly magic. "You listen to your brother now," with a nod at Sam, "he's a smart boy. Much smarter than you, Dean Winchester."

It was just the insult Dean needed to get him past his distress. He nodded shortly, his stance steadying, both annoyance and a quick flash of gratitude flickering over his face. Missouri turned to the little boy, her smile deepening. "You should listen to this little one, too. He's far, far wiser than you."

Castiel stared back at her with grave attention, the hand he had fisted in Dean's shirt gradually loosening. He didn't blink, of course, but Missouri did, suddenly, with a gasp and a staggered step back. "Oh, my glory. Oh, oh my."

The words were shocked but her tone was oddly calm, almost bemused. She reached sideways and grabbed a handful of tissues from an end table, getting them in front of Castiel's nose just before another enormous sneeze shook his entire body. He sniffled and took the tissues gratefully, and she shook her head in commiseration. "You poor boy. Come on and sit down, now."

Missouri waved them forward to the sitting area where she sank into an easy chair, feet popping up to rest on a tweed-patterned ottoman. She had re-arranged her furniture sometime in the last couple years, Sam noted absently, but he recognized most of the pieces. The same and yet different, just like everything in their lives.

The Winchesters took a couch, and Castiel wiggled down between them, clutching his tissues. Sam laid a hand on his chest to check his breathing, something he remembered Dad doing when they were sick as kids. His breaths were a little rough and labored, but not too bad, and they seemed to come easily enough, no pain or respiratory distress. Cas rested his head on Dean's arm, his eyes still fixed on Missouri.

The psychic shook her head slowly, watching the boy right back. "My, my, my. You're just all full of light, aren't you? Nothing in there but light. I don't rightly know how you're holding on to it all, what with all you've already seen and suffered in this dark, ugly world, but there it is. Nothing but light."

Castiel nodded, but had to object to one part of that, his voice low and phlegmy. "Not dark. Not ugly."

She smiled gently. "Well, that's true enough. There's plenty of beauty left in this ol' world, too. Guess I shouldn't be surprised that you're only seeing that." Her eyes flickered to Sam and Dean. "These boys will keep an eye on the rest for you. You're in good hands."

Her gaze sharpened in warning at them, telling them that they had better not prove her wrong if they knew what was good for them. Sam nodded back almost involuntarily, responding to the silent order. Dean just looked a little pissed, mutely retorting, _What, you think we didn't know?_

Sam thought maybe it was time they got down to their reason for coming. "Missouri, we were hoping you could help us."

She sighed gustily. "Lord, boy, you can't make small talk for five minutes?"

He opened his mouth to apologize, unaccountably sheepish, and also somewhat shocked at himself. Wasn't Dean supposed to be the brash one, while Sam was the one with people skills? Yet his brother sat there silent, had barely said a word since they arrived.

Missouri flapped a hand in dismissal before he could speak. "Never mind, never mind. I know you're only worried about keeping that dear boy safe. But you're at my house now. You think I don't have up every protection and warding spell I know? You're as safe here as anywhere. And you don't have anything on your tail right now, do you?"

"Not that we know of, no."

"Well then. Sit back. Take a load off. I'm not going to go digging around in the child's brain without getting to know him a bit, first. In a little while I'll go get some cookies, and your brother will relax enough to be a smart-mouth with me, and you'll give him disapproving looks and I'll threaten to smack him with a spoon, and your little friend will smile at us all and won't understand it one tiny bit but love us anyway because that's just what he _does,_ and everything will be just fine."

Sam blinked rapidly, then nodded and slouched back against the couch, feeling some of the tightness across his shoulders release for the first time since Castiel had showed up at their motel room, dirty and weary, scraped and bruised, barely able to speak. It was hard to believe that that hadn't even been thirty-six hours ago. It felt like much, much longer.

Of course Missouri was right. Everything went pretty much exactly as she said.

X

Later Dean walked with Castiel to the playground down the street, small hand gripping big, sneakers and boots scuffing together through a thin drift of desiccated leaves. Sam stood at the kitchen window and watched them go, the smell of beans and spices rich around him. Missouri was making red beans and rice for them, had already started it before they got there, but she invited Sam into the kitchen to inspect the ingredients because she already knew that he wanted to.

He turned away to sit at the table where they had once made gris-gris bags to banish a poltergeist, letting his head fall to rest on one hand. Missouri sat across from him, cradling a mug of hot tea in both hands. His own mug rested at his elbow, untouched.

"Well now, why don't you tell me how it is with you, Sam Winchester?"

"You mean you don't know?"

She thwapped his shoulder with a flat hand. It actually stung a little. "Hush your sass, boy. I know you've been making yourself more like Dean, and you've had good reasons, but you can skip the more irritating parts of his personality."

Sam let a sigh run out, rubbing his eyes with the tips of his fingers. "You're right. I'm sorry. I…" He swallowed, running out of words.

Her hand returned to his shoulder, rubbing gently this time. "You're not used to being the one taking care of things. It scares you that Dean needs that."

"Yeah. Yeah, it does." He nodded, grateful for the words to explain the unease swirling inside him. "I don't mind, really I don't, but… I'm not used to it. Dean isn't either, and I know he hates it, hates himself for needing it, and that's just as bad."

Missouri patted his shoulder before returning her hand to her mug and taking a long sip. "I told you true earlier. All three of you boys have been through the wars. You have to be kind to yourself too, Sam. You can't be upset with yourself when things don't come easy."

It was a revelation, the idea that he should be gentle with himself as well as his brother. Sam blinked and nodded. "You…you sense thoughts and energies. You know what Dean's been through."

She eyed him narrowly over her brim. "It's Dean's place to tell you, not mine."

"I know. I'm not asking for more information." Sam swallowed thickly. "God, I don't think I could stand to know anymore than he's already told me. I just want to know…if there's any way to fix this for him. Make it better."

"There's no potion I can mix up for you, child. There's no spell to chant, no magic words. I am sorry for that, truly." Missouri shook her head, letting out a breath in both grief and exasperation. "You men always want a straightforward cure for what ails you, a set of instructions and a list of steps to follow, but sometimes there's no simple path. Your brother's on a journey, same as all of us, only his has been to darker places than most."

"Yeah." Sam looked down at his hand on the table, absently tracing patterns. After a moment he realized that he was drawing an invisible devil's trap, over and over.

"Oh, Sam, honey." She drew a deep breath, and suddenly her hand covered his, stilling the restless movement. "Sam, Sam, you can't blame yourself for this. The guilt will eat you up, leave you bone dry with nothing else to give, and then where will Dean and little Castiel be?"

He looked up, sudden tears stinging his eyes. "But it was for me. He went for me. And I didn't save him. I tried and I tried and I didn't save him. If only…even just a _month_ earlier, it would have made such a difference for him…"

All of the things he'd been holding back, refusing to think, for days and weeks now, months, all of the feelings he had refused and refused and pushed back and walled away behind patience and sobriety and discipline and hunting and Ruby…they all seemed to crash into him at once, now, a tidal wave black and towering, there to crush him and bury him, ruin him forever.

"Sam, Sam." Her other hand was holding his now, strong and fierce. "You're a smart boy. You know all the things I would say to you on this. You didn't choose to die, and you couldn't have stopped Dean from giving everything to get you back. No one in the universe could have stopped him, you know that. You didn't have the power to save him, and the road you were taking to get that power wouldn't have led you anywhere good, you know that now. I'm sorry you weren't the one to get him out, truly, but he's out now, and you have to be _Sam,_ not the person you made yourself be to survive those months without your brother."

He nodded, focused on breathing the way Ruby had taught him, deep and strong, in and out.

"What Dean did for you was stupid, no one denies that, but he did it for love. And now what you do, to repay him, you understand? It has be in kind. It can't be out of guilt or rage or any of the other things you got hurting inside you. You hear me, boy? Your journey's been to some dark places, too, but it's time to walk back to the high road. You hear me?"

"I hear you." It was a low murmur, almost inaudible, and he concentrated on making it stronger. "I hear you."

Missouri patted his hand gently and withdrew, picking up her tea again. She blew out a breath in relief, as if she'd been running a race or struggling with a heavy load. "Good. Good. You Winchesters, you're going to be the death of me."

"Oh, I hope not." Sam offered her a smile. It was slow, but felt closer to real than anything he'd put on his face for a long, long time. "I really hope not, Missouri."

TBC


	14. Chapter 14

**14**

"This is a slide."

"Slide."

"Those are monkey bars."

"Monkey bars."

"That's a jungle gym."

"Jungle gym."

"And…uh…I don't remember what that thing is called, but it's fun."

"Fun."

"These are swings. They're awesome."

"Swings. Awesome."

Dean still hadn't gotten tired of teaching Castiel new words, and Castiel hadn't gotten tired of learning them. Castiel didn't think he ever would get tired of it, really. He liked the way Dean's face lit up with enjoyment in this task, liked the enthusiasm in his words and expressions and gestures. It felt like maybe he was reminding Dean about the good things in the world, even if in a very small way, and he liked that.

It really was helping him talk better, too, was helping his mind make connections from concepts—large and cloudy and amorphous—to the small stones of human syllables and words. He still couldn't quite figure out the use of all those little words, the ones humans put between the important ones, but he was working on it. They were always so confused when he didn't say them.

The playground was almost empty, most kids at a thing Dean called "school" with a strange mixture of scorn and nostalgia in his voice. A mother with two small children played on a short slide in another section, where all the equipment was smaller than those in the area Dean had taken him to, but that was all. It wasn't very cold out, no frost or anything, and Castiel tried to sniff deeply, taking in all the smells of late autumn—wet leaves and dying grass and brisk air. It smelled like everything was going to sleep. He sneezed if he did that too much, though.

"All right, Sam said no running around because of your cold, so why don't I swing you?" Dean picked him up and placed him on the hard rubber plank, and Castiel instinctively reached up to grab the padded chains on both sides. The whole thing moved when he wiggled, and he might have been a little scared if Dean wasn't there, smiling down at him. Nothing could happen to him while Dean was around.

Dean touched his small hand as he walked around behind him, letting Castiel know where he was at all times. Castiel craned his head back to look up the man, and saw him looking away for moment at something on the edge of the playground, his eyes focused and intent. But then he looked back to Castiel, grinning. "Okay, I'm gonna push you now. Hold on tight!"

Castiel tightened his fingers, and Dean's strong hands rested on his back for a second. A moment of pressure, and then he was flying, weightless and free, the world a blur of motion around him. Castiel gasped, the chains digging into his palms with the strength of his grip. The blur reversed, the swing falling backward, and Dean's hands grabbed his shoulders, stopping the movement.

"I'm sorry, buddy. Did I scare ya?"

He looked up into Dean's concerned face, then slowly shook his head, fingers loosening around the chains. A big smile spread over his face. "Fun," he said breathlessly. "Again!"

Dean laughed in delight. "Okay. Hold on, then, 'cause this time you're going even higher!"

Intellectually he knew that this wasn't flying, but it felt like it, everything in motion, wind tugging at his hair. It pulled at memories buried deep, and he let them stay where they were, unneeded. He was a child now, not an angel. Laughter burst out of Castiel in a pure expression of human joy, and he heard Dean laugh behind him, taking pleasure in his pleasure. Another human thing, this sharing of enjoyment in simple things, the way laughter rebounded between two people, only stronger for the giving, strengthening and growing. It was wonderful.

Dean gradually let the swing come to a stop, and Castiel leaned backward, holding onto the chains, looking up at him. "Swing, Dean." He let go with one hand and pointed at the swing next to his. "You swing, too. Fun!"

But the man was looking away again, eyes hard, his expression serious. He shook himself out of it and looked down at Castiel, smiling, but the smile didn't make it into his eyes. "Nah, let's do something else that's fun. Okay?"

Castiel nodded, though Dean's sudden seriousness confused him. He sat up straight and looked around, trying to see what had upset the man. The mother and children were gone, the playground empty. He didn't see anything but the wind playing with a pile of leaves near the fence, shifting them slowly with a dry, papery rustle.

Dean came around in front of him and lifted him down from the swing. "We're gonna do a thing called a race, all right? We both start here, and the person who gets back to Missouri's house first wins. Run as fast as you can. Ready?"

Castiel's face twisted in confusion—hadn't Sam said not to do that? But Dean's little smirk reminded him that no, of course, they didn't listen to Sam all the time. He wasn't their mother or anything. He nodded, then turned toward Missouri's house, tensing his legs to run. Dean would surely beat him, so much taller and stronger and more used to the human body, but it was for fun.

"And…go!"

Castiel ran as fast and hard as he could, small feet pounding on sand, then grass, then concrete, then pavement. He had never done this before, and the speed _was_ fun, wind again tugging at his hair, trees and buildings blurring around him. Too soon, though, the air started to burn his throat, rasping in his lungs, tearing as it swooped in and out, and he fought a terrible urge to cough. It hurt. His legs and feet tired, slowing, aching, but he kept running, determined to get back to Missouri's house.

At first Dean ran beside him, a big hand on his shoulder encouraging him on, but once they left the playground he was aware of the man moving back, running behind him. That didn't make sense—wasn't he supposed to be trying to win? Surely Dean could win this race easily, if he was trying. Maybe he was letting Castiel win on purpose, so it would be more fun for the boy.

This wasn't fun, though. It hurt. Two houses down from Missouri's Castiel stumbled, coughing, legs and chest aching. He would have fallen, but Dean's hands scooped up under his arms, lifting him, and then he was being carried, tucked backward against Dean's chest. The man ran as if a demon was after him, and Castiel closed his eyes against the speed, dizzy and a little sick.

They passed the wards that circled Missouri's house—she had shown them where they were—and Dean kept going all the way to the door, then turned and looked back, clasping Castiel to his heaving chest. Castiel looked with him, saw the Impala parked on the street just inside the outermost protective circle. There was a slamming noise, a thunderclap, only on the ground instead of in the air, and all around them something shivered and shimmered like an invisible wall.

"Okay," Dean breathed. "Okay. It bounced off. Can't get in. We're okay."

"What?" Castiel tried to ask, but the air caught in his lungs and he coughed suddenly, hard and painful. It burned and it didn't stop—suddenly he was caught in a fit of coughing, harsh and hurting, going on and on. He tried to curl up against it, his forehead pressing Dean's shoulder, hands clutching the leather coat.

Dean patted his back, murmuring reassurances. When the coughing didn't stop he wrapped both arms around Castiel and held on tight, trying to help him ride through it. His voice was calm at first, but slowly grew more stressed and anxious as it continued. "Breathe, kiddo. C'mon, you gotta breathe. C'mon, Cas, you can do it. Breathe, dammit!"

The door beside them burst open and Castiel flinched at the movement, but it was just Sam, his worried face, then his huge hand covering Castiel's back between Dean's arms, warm and solid. "Hey, hey. It's okay. Let it out. It's okay. We're okay."

The coughing ran out, finally, and Castiel lay limply on Dean's shoulder, breathing shakily, afraid to pull air in too deep for fear it would start again. Dean kissed his forehead, his breath shaky, too, and Sam rubbed his back, smooth and slow. Castiel rolled his head to the side and opened his eyes, blinking to clear away the colorful spots that clouded his vision. Missouri stood in the yard, waving an incense stick and murmuring a steady litany.

"What was it?" Sam asked softly, meant for Dean only. As if just a lowered voice could keep Castiel from hearing when they were all crowded in so close, holding onto each other.

"I don't know." Dean's voice was just as soft, calmer now, thought it still held a thin edge of agitation beneath it. "I didn't see it. Just felt something…off, you know? I saw leaves moving against the wind, thought I smelled…thought I smelled sulfur. Just a touch. Mixed with something else, I'm not sure what. Don't think it was a demon, but…"

"Something demonic," Sam finished for him.

"Yeah. Something bad."

Castiel tried to stop it, but another cough ripped through him. It felt like broken glass. He held his breath, trying to keep more from coming, all but convulsing against Dean as he fought to hold it in.

"Aw, Cas." Dean held him impossibly tighter, pressing him close and warm. "I'm sorry I made you run, buddy. I just wanted to catch the thing off-guard, and I guess it worked, since we made it back here."

"Okay," Castiel whispered. "I okay. Was fun."

He huffed a short laugh. "Yeah, it was. It was fun before the monster came."

Missouri finished her warding and came back toward the house, though her eyes were wide, showing white stark against the dark brown of her face. "We're safe for now, boys. Inside now. I guess it's time I gave you that help you came for, help figure what's going on."

Dean nodded. Castiel closed his eyes and turned his face against the man's neck, not wanting to look out over the yard anymore. He hurt and he was scared, but Dean and Sam were with him, so he knew everything would be all right.

TBC


	15. Chapter 15

There is now a soundtrack for this fic, too, and more fanart has been promised to me and is coming. I'll keep putting links in my profile. :)

**15**

They sat on the couch again, Castiel between Sam and Dean, again clutching tissues, this time with his shirt unbuttoned and a thin glaze of medicated balm painting his small chest. (Missouri seemed to have everything remotely useful for this sickness stashed in her bathroom somewhere, including Children's Tylenol targeted at Castiel's exact symptoms.) The boy lay boneless and exhausted across both Winchester brothers, his head cradled in the hollow under Dean's throat, knees flung over Sam's thigh, Dean's arm wrapped around his torso to hold him up, Sam's hand resting gently on his shins.

Missouri had pushed the coffee table aside and pulled up her tweedy ottoman so she could sit in front of them, leaning forward, all of her attention concentrated on Castiel. His breathing was better, now, though his throat was obviously sore, his chest hurting, every word he spoke holding a rasp that Dean winced to hear. If only they could wait for tomorrow to do this, let the kid get a good night's rest before subjecting him to another ordeal.

But they were all terribly aware of that…thing…pacing outside, just beyond the boundary of the wards, waiting, thirsting, slavering. It was an invisible supernatural creature, it was vicious, and it was after Castiel. Well, they did say that bad things came in threes.

"Be careful," Sam said to Missouri, unable to hold back any longer. Dean knew this had been spinning in his brother's head since they first started preparing, only waiting for an opportune moment to jump out of his mouth and pounce on them all. "The last psychic who tried to get a look at Castiel—her eyes burned up. It's…just…you gotta be careful."

Missouri tilted her head at him, and Dean waited for the snappy comeback, _You telling me how to do my job, boy?_ But she just nodded kindly, seeing the real concern in Sam's face. "I know, child. I heard all about it. And anyway, I'm not going to be looking this time, just listening."

She turned back to the boy, reaching forward to pat his knee. "There's an awful lot going on up there, mm? Trying to fit whole ages worth of memories in such a small container—no wonder you're just spilling light all over the place, no wonder you can't remember hardly a thing. It's all jam-packed in there, like papers stuffed too tight in a file. You try to pull out just one, and a whole mess of others will come with it. So you've just been letting it be, wise little boy that you are. 'Cept in dreams, of course, where you can't control it."

Castiel nodded slowly, with a minimum of movement, not wasting the energy to speak.

"All right. Well, now, I'm going to try to pull out a few pages, just a little at a time. I won't be perceiving them directly—I'll be on the edges, like. I don't expect I'll be able to understand most of it, so you'll have to translate for us. Think you can do that?"

Dean could feel the boy sagging even more heavily against him at the thought, already exhausted, knowing that this would make it worse. But Cas nodded bravely, even so. Dean's heart clenched like a fist in his chest. This whole thing sucked.

Missouri rubbed Castiel's knee. "That's a good boy. We just need to figure out how you came to be as you are, and anything about that nasty thing outside." She said "nasty thing" as if it was a bug to be swatted, nothing more serious than that, and Dean was grateful for the levity.

Castiel wrapped both hands around Dean's forearm, holding tight. "Dean." A soft plea, a single word packed full of all the fear and longing and trust and love that could exist in one small child. It was enormous, that single word, full to bursting.

"I'm here." He cinched the kid a little closer, a little tighter, giving back all he could.

Damn, this was going to be awful, digging into Castiel's memories of the attack that had nearly destroyed him and had somehow, miraculously, made him into a human instead. He remembered Cas shaking and sweating in the grip of that first nightmare, moaning and murmuring, and the way each subsequent flashback had him almost blacking out, reaching out blindly for anything to hold onto. Dean was here, yeah, he was offering all the support he could, but how could it possibly be enough?

Sam reached over to cover Castiel's hands with one of his, therefore also touching Dean's arm. He would never, never admit it, not for any amount of money or pie or hot, willing babes, but Dean calmed at that, the stuttered racing of his heart slowing down a bit. Sam was here, too. That could only make things better, easier for all of them.

Missouri drew a deep breath, steadying herself for the plunge, and rested her hands on Sam's big one, fingers slipping through to touch Dean and Castiel. They were all connected, now, just a big mass of weirdness and desperate, reaching hope. The psychic closed her eyes, and Castiel went limp against Dean's chest.

Dean looked at Sam, saw that Sammy was already looking back at him, eyes wide as he wrestled back the touch of panic. A long time ago—such a long time—they had thought that Sam was a natural-born psychic, like Missouri, thought that he could learn to do these sorts of things. Now they knew…now they knew differently. It hurt, having that taken away from his little brother, replaced with this twisted mess of power, bestowed by a demon.

Castiel moaned, shaking under Dean's arm, and he brought up his other hand to cup the boy's face, holding him close, hoping that it made some sort of difference. Missouri sat statue-still, deep in psychic territory. Dean desperately wished there was some way he could know what was going on in there. Sam's eyes, staring unblinking at the boy, told him that his brother was wishing the same. Sitting still, unable to do anything, unable to help, while someone in his protection was struggling, fighting, possibly suffering… It was the worst thing on earth. Not the worst thing in the universe—Dean knew very intimately what that was—but definitely the worst thing on earth. Dean wanted to _be_ there, somehow, on the inside, not here on the sidelines useless and aching with worry.

And then, somehow, suddenly, impossibly, he was.

X

Castiel was back in the nightmare, the maelstrom of black and gray, watching the shimmering threads of his spirit unraveling, torn away by teeth and claws. The agony of it was intense, overwhelming, far deeper than physical—this was his soul being burnt, shredded, destroyed. He was being unmade. On every side eyes, yellow, red, black and white, demons and demonic vassals, creatures both petty and powerful, all mauling and ripping, taking him to pieces.

Somewhere beyond was a woman's voice, firm and commanding, her force pushing and pulling, trying to press past this to something else. He shuddered uncontrollably, his mind unable to comprehend, unable to respond. There was no escape from this. He would be trapped here forever and ever, enduring this torture, unable to push it away, unable to move on.

A spark of power tore through the vision, lightning not white but gold and blue, the woman's power reacting with something else, different in essence and effect but somehow similar. There was a quake, the entire world being jolted as something foundational, something fundamental, twisted and changed, not perverted but…transformed.

_Sam._ He recognized the gold in a flash of clarity, and just as suddenly knew that the blue belong to a woman named Missouri. The sky was changing, like a sunrise not on the horizon but everywhere, yellow and blue leaking through corded clouds of black and gray. Sam and Missouri.

And somehow, incredibly, there was another presence riding in through this new rift, too, a familiar one, strong and good. Gentle arms folded around Castiel, holding him, protecting him. Remembered pain was fading, replaced with present warmth. Dean.

"Just a dream, Cas," said the deep voice in his ear, a reminder of what he should have known on his own. "Not really happening. Not really here. This stuff has no power, not anymore. What happened to you was bad, and there's nothing wrong with being scared and hurt, but it's done now. This is just a memory."

"Dean," he sobbed, pressing himself into this kindness, this sheltering. "Dean."

"I'm here. Toldja, didn't I?" Dean wrapped him a little tighter, a little closer. "Now, listen, kiddo, we hate to do this, we gotta know. These guys, all these things attacking you, they're just demons. It can't be one of them outside Missouri's house, because Ruby's bag is keeping those from knowing where you are. This is something else. So is there anything here that isn't a demon? Some kind of creature that might have got your scent, tracked you down physically instead of magically? That's the only thing I can figure might have happened."

Castiel stilled, though he trembled in Dean's grip. The images swirled around them, flashing with the speed of thought. So many eyes…

"Hey, hey. Don't get caught up. Look at it like…just pictures. Not here. Just pictures. They're flat and empty, and they can't do anything to you. Don't let them hurt you. Pictures can't hurt you."

Castiel nodded. He couldn't close his eyes in this non-physical place, couldn't shut it out, but he could exert an influence. Papers, Missouri had said. Pages from a file. Dean was right—pictures, papers couldn't hurt you.

The blue and gold flared around them in the bowl of the sky, deep and powerful, holding everything still.

He reached out one trembling finger, all of the eyes flat and still, images on a page. A gentle push, and he sent them scattering, a pack of those cards Dean had been trying to teach him to shuffle back at the motel. Powerless. Just memories.

With Dean at his back and Sam and Missouri surrounding them all, Castiel figured out how to leaf through the images, discarding demon after demon. Couldn't touch him, couldn't reach him, couldn't hurt him. In the end there were three, three creatures that had taken part in his attempted destruction, three that might have somehow found their way to earth and decided to finish the task.

"All right, all right, that's good." Dean was still with him, studying the images. Castiel relaxed and let them float away, knowing that the man could handle it from here.

He was so tired.

"Just one more thing, kiddo." Dean sounded regretful, but firm. "We need to know how you ended up as a kid. If you…if you fell. Or if it was something else. We just need to know how to protect you. Who we need to protect you from."

Castiel shuddered, but nodded. One more page from the file. Sam and Missouri steadied his hand, helped him find the right one, and he pulled it out…

Blackness, pure and absolute. No eyes, just him, holding one final spark of his essence. And a voice, sweet and resounding, power incarnate.

_Castiel. Your survival was a near thing. You must recover._

His own voice, weak and failing, near feverish, at the faint and raveling extent of his abilities. _I must complete my mission._

_You have the energy to transport yourself anywhere in the universe, if only that. Come home. Rest until you are able to battle again._

_Dean Winchester needs me._

_Stubborn child. You don't have the strength to find a willing vessel. You have nothing left._

_I must go to Dean._

_If you go to earth, it will not be as a warrior. You will be weak and fragile, easy to overpower, at the whim of every creature._

_I must find Dean Winchester._

Silence for a time, heavy and foreboding. Then the pronouncement of doom. _Very well. Live as you have chosen._

The pain of being made was very like the pain of being unmade. When next Castiel awoke, he remembered only one thing.

_I must find Dean Winchester._

TBC


	16. Chapter 16

**16**

Sam opened his eyes and drew back, trembling in every limb. He stared at his hand, still covering Castiel's small fingers on Dean's arm, still buried under Missouri's strong palms. The world seemed to be tilting on an axis that he hadn't known was there, swaying gently to and fro, but he was not at the mercy of this motion—he was the cause.

"Oh, Lordy Lordy." Missouri's voice, a soft, unbelieving moan. He looked over in time to see her blink and come back to herself, looking dazed, done in. "Lordy, Sam, what did you do?"

"I don't know." It was a whisper.

It was also a lie.

He looked back to Dean, waiting, breath caught in his throat. He thought he'd done a good job of untangling them all—threads of different sizes and weights and colors, mingling and wrapped in the dark storm of Castiel's traumatic memories—but their eyes were still closed, his brother and their little friend. What if something had gone wrong, what if…

Then Dean drew in a shuddered gasp, eyelids fluttering open, arm tightening around the child even before he was fully conscious. Castiel surfaced a fraction of a second afterward, though he didn't move even a hair's-breadth, just lay there exhausted, blinking slowly at Sam, eyelashes brushing Dean's fingers still cupped around his head.

"Tired," he said.

"Yeah, I bet." Dean's voice was a weary croak.

All three of them were completely worn out, Dean, Castiel, Missouri. Sam felt his bones hum with energy. He felt afire.

Missouri pulled back her hands, breathing calm and slow. "Everyone all right?"

Of course they weren't. None of them were remotely okay after that. Sam could see the shockiness threading in Dean's breath, the way his throat worked. Not because of the psychic stuff—because of what he had heard in that last memory.

Sam supposed he was allowed, though. Anyone would be a little shocked by that kind of revelation, that kind of sacrifice and overwhelming devotion.

Dean had turned his attention to the little boy, though, shifting him into a more comfortable position against his chest. "You can sleep now, buddy. You did it. You showed us what we needed to see."

Castiel nodded slowly, hands unwrapping from around Dean's arm like static cling unpeeling from a window, reluctant. Sam removed his own hand just as grudgingly. The boy turned sideways against Dean, folding himself into the man's lap, and closed his eyes. Missouri pulled the afghan off the back of the sofa and laid it over the child, tucking it under his chin, around Dean's elbow. She watched them for a bit, until it was clear that Castiel had dozed off, then gave Sam a wan smile and headed to the kitchen to check on dinner.

Dean looked at Sam, and Sam didn't think he was imagining the pleading in his brother's eyes. He needed someone to explain this to him, someone to make sense of it, because Dean still couldn't believe it, still couldn't understand. God, his brother was such an idiot sometimes.

Sam sighed, and laid it out, black and white. "He loves you, Dean. He told you, remember? He loves you now and maybe he loved you when he was an angel, too, in that whole mystical cosmic unconditional kind of way, like God supposedly loves people. He thinks you're important and it's his job to help you, no matter what it takes. And for Christ's sake, you moron, I do too, and you _know_ it, so don't you dare look so surprised about this."

"Um."

Dean chewed on his lip. Sam waited, until it became clear that this was all he was going to get. Then he slapped Dean's shoulder and stood up, heading for the door. "I'm gonna check the wards. Get some rest."

Sam didn't take the time to fetch his jacket. Minutes later, he found himself out in the yard, pacing. It took him a moment to realize that he was angry, so blindingly, incandescently angry that his breath shuddered with it. Angry at the hard, dirty world, at the rough-edged life and the imperfect father that had made Dean think he wasn't worth saving, wasn't worth loving. Angry at the God who had rewarded Castiel's devotion to a lowly human by making him small and defenseless, then abandoned him two days' walk from the person who could care for him. Angry at the brutal mob of demons that had forced Castiel, who only gave and gave and loved and loved, into that position in the first place.

Angry most of all at the stupid, vicious beast that had tracked them here, trapped them here, thirsting after the blood of a little child. He could feel it out there, patient and implacable, all made of smoke and scales and razor-sharp teeth. It knew where they were, it knew their scent, and it knew they would have to come out eventually. They didn't even know what kind of creature it was, let alone how to kill it. Sam had seen the images Castiel had picked out of the mob, peering over his brother's shoulder with eyes-that-weren't-eyes, and none of them felt right, none of them a match for this malevolent presence.

He stalked to the edge of the circle's ward, a tall man in a suburban yard in a calm suburban street on a chilly late autumn afternoon, shaking with fury and not with cold. He spread his arms, challenging, and roared.

"You can't have him! _He's ours!"_

The beast laughed. Sam felt it, a deep rumble through his gut. Every sinew hummed with power, gold as the streaked sky in Castiel's mind. He had opened something up, letting himself let go like that, leaping in and taking his brother with him. It had been necessary, that was certain—by the time they arrived Castiel had been failing, pounded to the dirt by the force of the memories beating against his child's mind, and Missouri had been unable to help him. But something was open now, a switch had been flipped, and Sam was thrumming, a power line full of live current.

He knew what this was. It was opportunity.

It wasn't so very different than grabbing a demon and tearing it loose of its moorings. In fact, this was much easier, since there was no human to protect, to carefully untangle from the black influence. Sam simply grabbed it, one hand reaching out in a pale mimicry of what his mind was actually doing, a strongman's shadow on the wall. And then he _threw._

The next he knew, he was flat on his back in the frost-dry November grass, and Dean was bending over him, holding his head in both hands, shaking him a little bit. He noticed that Dean's lips were moving, and then sound came back to the world like hitting the mute button on a remote.

"Sam, Sam! What the hell? What did you do?"

He had lied to Missouri. He wouldn't lie to Dean, not again. He knew exactly what he'd done.

"Didn't kill it," he forced out through numb lips and tongue. They felt swollen, hard to move. "Got rid of it for awhile, but didn't kill it. Be back. It'll be back."

The switch, whatever it was, had flipped closed again. Probably because he'd overloaded it. Sam ached everywhere. He reached up a shaky hand to touch his face, found the thick line of drying blood snaking across his cheek, from his nose to his ear, into the ground.

Dean's laugh was broken, as shaky as Sam's hand. "Thought you were gonna check the wards, man. Then I look out the window, see you on the ground…"

"Sorry."

But he wasn't, and they both knew it. A little growl puffed out of Dean, but he wrapped a hand around the back of Sam's neck, the other around his shoulder, and hauled him up. Sam got his feet under him and pushed himself up, then stood swaying, leaning on Dean.

Dean was calling him every name he knew, every childish slur they had made up, kicking each other from opposite sides of the backseat, every adult insult they had hurled at each other in true anger. It was a low, continued mutter aimed somewhere around Sam's shoulder. "Asshole, idiot, buttmunch, moron, dumbass, codflicker, dick…"

Sam patted his chest with a clumsy hand. "Relax, man. Ruby's hex bag, remember? The angels don't know I'm messing around with it again…"

"That's no excuse!" Dean hauled him toward the house, steps sharp and hard with anxious frustration.

"I had to do it, Dean. Thing was after our kid. Can't have that."

"Yeah, yeah. You know it's kind of weird to call him 'our kid,' right?"

"I told…I told…whatever it was. Can't have him. He's ours."

Dean briefly squeezed Sam's hand, flung over his supporting shoulder. "I know. I know, Sammy. You felt like you had to do it, whatever you did. But you always feel like you have to do it, and they keep telling you not to. I don't know, dude. I just don't know."

"S'okay, dude." As muzzy as he was, Sam remembered that it was his job to be reassuring, right now. Dean needed to know that Sam could take care of things while Dean was trying to find the ground again. It was all right with him—Sam didn't mind doing it. "It's okay, Dean. Everything's gonna be okay."

The words should have been empty, useless, but he felt Dean's shoulders relaxing under his heavy arm, even so. Sam smiled dizzily, unutterably pleased with this. It was so, so good, being able to give back a little of what Dean had given him, over and over and over.

"Did it for you, too," he murmured. "You too, man. Gotta keep your angel safe."

They had reached the door. Dean wrestled it open and dragged him inside, then dumped him in one of Missouri's easy chairs. Sam saw Castiel still sleeping peacefully on the couch, curled up under the afghan, though the blanket was rucked up and disarranged. Dean must have set him down quickly before rushing outside to get to Sam.

Now Dean took time to smooth the afghan, tucking it around the little feet and shoulders. Then he turned back to Sam, shoulders hunched up, looking oddly small and uncertain. "So what now, man? You got rid of it, but it's still out there. It's gonna come back."

Sam blinked, and chuckled. This was _so_ Dean's line. His brother must be really, really tired, forgetting to say this himself. "We gotta kill it, of course. We find out what it is and how to kill it, and then we kill it. Remember the plan? It's still good."

Dean hesitated, and then his eyes slowly lit up, like sunrise over an ocean, deep and green and gold. "So…we go see Bobby?"

"Yeah. Yeah. Let's go see Bobby."

Dean's grin was beautiful, and Sam didn't feel stupid at all, thinking that. Dean's grin was always beautiful.

TBC


	17. Chapter 17

But first, a note on the last chapter: Remember, shiny peeps, that this was from Sam's perspective, and does not necessarily reflect the author's views. So, for instance, it is Sam who feels like God abandoned Castiel, not necessarily me. And it is Sam who blames John for Dean's lack of self-worth, not me. (Though I certainly don't think John HELPED at all, but I'm more inclined to believe that it was a combination of factors, and yeah, this is totally a post for another day. Can we just agree that John was imperfect and leave it at that?) Also, no, this will not be Wincest. Sam was just feeling very fuzzy-headed and affectionate in that last bit.

Anyway. On with the story.

**17**

It was too bad they were all so tired during supper, because even Dean had to admit that the red beans and rice were pretty damn tasty, in a far too wholesome, plain-goodness kind of way. Sam was barely keeping his eyes open, Missouri's chit-chat lacked spark, and poor Castiel didn't seem to take to the food with his usual relish. He ate mechanically and quietly, sometimes pausing to sneeze or cough. He was getting a little better at remembering to use the handkerchief Dean had given him, though.

The brief nap between the psychic-mojo weirdness and dinner had obviously not been long enough. Castiel had the afghan from Missouri's couch still wrapped around his shoulders, and he huddled under it, occasionally rubbing the dangly string fringe between thumb and forefinger. Somehow it only made him look smaller, wearier.

Dean was worn out, too—who knew that just sitting on a couch doing some mental calisthenics could be so utterly exhausting? But his leg was bouncing under the table, even so. They needed to get back on the road. Evening was coming outside, and it would be nice to stay the night here, get some rest, let the kid sleep in a house. But that thing was coming back, and Sam couldn't give him a timeline on when, just that it would.

He was already going over maps in his head, the well-known route to Bobby's. They could make it in five hours. Maybe less, if he pushed. Completely doable, even as tired as he was. He would get some gas station coffee, turn up the music…

No, scratch that. Music on low, let Cas and Sammy sleep.

Missouri sighed gustily, and he glanced over, automatically gritting his teeth as he waited for a scolding. But she just shook her head gently. "You be careful now, boy. I don't want to be hearing about no car accident involving a classic Chevy somewhere in Nebraska. You hear me?"

He managed a smile. "I hear you." Missouri meant well, even if she did think Dean was only a little better than something foul and stinking ground into the carpet.

She rolled her eyes. "Mercy, child, I do _not._ I think you need to watch your mouth more often and learn some manners, but you're a fine young man for all that. Why do you go around always assuming the worst?"

Across the table, Sam blinked once, slowly. "Because he's Dean," he deadpanned. He was holding his head in that carefully still way that told Dean he had a monster headache, but he still found the energy to be a smartass.

Dean scowled and shoveled beans and rice into his mouth. They'd already had this conversation a bunch of times, and he didn't want to have it again. He assumed the worst because that was always the safest way to go, always. Period. Full stop. The end.

He didn't get proved wrong very often, either.

Castiel sneezed again, a short, weary _kerschoo,_ quickly cut off, as if the poor kid didn't have the energy even to clear his sinuses properly. Dean looked over at him, his expression instantly softening as he took in the young boy swaying in his seat, blinking dazedly at nothing, head nodding toward his plate. Yeah, so this one had proved him wrong. It was the exception that proved the rule, wasn't it?

His hand darted over to splay across the kid's chest just in time to keep him from toppling into his food. "Hey, kiddo. You done eating?"

Cas nodded, then yawned cavernously, rubbing his eye with one small fist, which was still holding a fork. A little spatter of red bean stuff landed on Dean's arm, and he looked at it for a moment, then back to the boy. "Yeah, okay. You can sleep in the car, all right?"

Missouri wouldn't let them leave without packing them a bunch of leftovers in an aluminum tray she produced from somewhere. Also cookies (some kind of puffy wheat-germ-oatmeal-honey things for Castiel, though Dean figured the poor kid had to be getting tired of oatmeal by now). And sandwiches. And the Children's Tylenol and Vick's VapoRub. And a bunch of juice boxes, which, okay, who knew that Kansas psychic ladies kept juice boxes in their pantry? But Castiel's eyes lit up at those, and they were 100% juice and therefore good enough for Sam, so they took them.

When the boy seemed reluctant to give up the afghan, she insisted they take that, too. Dean protested—it looked like a nice blanket, one of those tapestry-like ones with pictures of various landmarks from around Lawrence—but she just said it was kitschy and she didn't want it anyway. Then there were the hugs and the "Thanks for everything" and Sam's sincere gratitude and Castiel's lovely, sleepy smile, and Dean let her hug him, too, since she seemed to want to so bad.

All in all, they were pretty well supplied for a five-hour trip up through Nebraska to South Dakota.

X

Sam put his head against the window and fell asleep five minutes out of Lawrence. Castiel drank a juice box and gazed quietly out on fields of Kansas wheat as dusk gave way to twilight, staying awake long enough to see moonlight spill across the plains, then curled up under the afghan and followed him. Dean kept an eye on them both, playing AC/DC on low volume and humming silently, mouthing the words.

Castiel coughed even in his sleep, hoarse, exhausted-sounding rasps that shook his entire body, seeming ripped from his gut through his lungs. The Tylenol didn't seem to be doing anything anymore, though initially the relief had been obvious. Dean was starting to think about doctors and antibiotics and ERs, and damn it, he wasn't Sam. It was just the sniffles. It was going to clear up just fine.

Besides, they didn't have any insurance for the boy. No birth certificate, no documentation. He was…Dean chuckled aloud at the thought. God, he was an illegal alien, straight from heaven to Midwest America with no stop at Ellis Island in between.

No, there was absolutely no use worrying about it. If it came to it they could stop at a clinic for a check-up, pay in cash, get a prescription and go on. None of this was going to mean a thing if they couldn't take care of that demonic monster riding their ass, though.

So, yeah. Bobby first. Then the rest of this shit.

Heading north, nearing the border, a light dusting of snow whitened the world. Temperatures on bank signs in the small towns they passed through hovered at freezing and just below. Cold, but not too cold. Winter was coming in for a landing, but hadn't settled down yet. Dean thought about stopping long enough to grab a handful of snow and stuff it down Sam's shirt—it would be worth it to get a giggle out of Cas—but decided that it was more important to get to Bobby, who was well-warded and chock-full of juicy information.

About that time, he realized that Castiel wasn't coughing anymore. Dean almost put his neck out jerking around to stare at him, but all he saw was a little tuft of dark, messy hair sticking out of the blanket-ball the boy had turned into. He watched long enough to catch the slight rise and fall of breathing, and then the wheels hit the rumble strip on the side of the road and he had to look forward, returning his attention to driving.

Sam startled when the Impala hit the rumble strip, rushing upward and blinking hard. "Wha'z that? Di' we kill a lion?"

Dean almost choked on a guffaw. "No, man. We didn't kill a lion."

"It sounded like a lion. It was growling and…and shaking the car."

"I promise you, not a lion. You ever heard of lions in Nebraska?"

Sam turned sideways in his seat to regard him seriously, his eyes wide and earnest and still partly asleep. "Anything could happen, Dean. It could have been a ghost lion."

"Well, then, it would already be dead, wouldn't it? Go back to sleep, dude. We're still about half an hour from Bobby's."

Sam seemed to consider this carefully, then accepted Dean's logic and rolled away to put his head back down on the window. "Okay. But drive safe, man. Don't hit any lions."

"No worries, Sammy. No killing the big kitty-cats."

Sam's answer was a snuffling wheeze, already fading off again. Dean smiled softly and watched the road, though he spared a few glances in the rear-view to make sure Cas was okay. All seemed well on that front, too.

Singer's Salvage Yard had a little sprinkle of snow on all the wrecks, too, like powdered sugar on a pile of toys in a child's messy room, strangely incongruous instead of really being pretty, despite the moonlight. It occurred to Dean, then, that they maybe could have called ahead, if only to make sure that he was back from the Dominican. But hey, Bobby was used to them showing up at weird times by now.

Dean just really hoped he was back.

A glimpse of the beat-up old truck parked next to the house had him slumping in relief. With a grateful sigh, Dean pulled the Impala up next to Bobby's truck, and saw the porch light already flipping on, Bobby leaning across the window next to the door to peer out at them. He shook Sam's shoulder enough to rouse him back him to snorting, mumbling wakefulness, then went around the back to get Castiel.

"Hey, kiddo. Time to wake up. We're here. Time to meet Uncle Bobby…"

His hand was still inches away from touching Castiel's blanket-covered shoulder when he knew that something was very, very wrong. That was…that was heat he was feeling, radiating from the boy in torpid waves. He was laying too still, too quiet…

Abruptly shaking in terror, Dean ripped the blanket away, revealing the kid's face, flushed and red, his mouth partly open. Dean's knees went a little weak when he saw the small chest still rising and falling, and he caught himself on the door. Castiel winced minutely as the cold air from outside hit his face, but nothing else moved. Dean laid a hand on his chest, felt the shallow movement, the rattling inside. He shook him. Nothing happened.

Damn, damn, damn. _Damn._

He was distantly aware of Sam's voice behind him, sleepily explaining, Bobby's incredulous baritone interrupting now and then. Dean was entirely preoccupied with wrapping Castiel up in the afghan, lifting him into his arms. The boy was utterly limp, dead weight, but still the lightest burden he'd ever carried.

He made his way to the porch, Cas a hot bundle clenched to his chest. His feet felt numb, wooden. Sam turned from his explanations to offer them a grin, his eyes more alert now. "Kid's still sleeping, huh?"

Dean swallowed. He was looking at Bobby, he realized, instinctively expecting the older man to have the answer. Bobby always had the answer.

His own voice sounded so small, so frightened. Like a child himself. "I can't wake him up."

TBC


	18. Chapter 18

**18**

Lost boys seemed to have a way of finding Bobby Singer. Sam and Dean Winchester both at various times—hell, even their daddy John, when he first showed up on Bobby's porch all full of rage and grief and questions, he'd had that same look about him, too, the bewildered eyes and uncertain stance, looking to Bobby like some kind of redneck guru. Was there some signal Bobby sent out proclaiming that he was a sentimental old softy? He wasn't doing it on purpose. He hadn't even had the heart to get another dog since poor Rumsfeld got killed by that demon-girl—he ought to be giving off surly-old-curmudgeon vibes by the dozen.

He was beginning to think that he should just take down all the "No Trespassing" signs around the salvage yard and put up ones that said "Strays Welcome" instead.

And here they were again, Dean with his big sad eyes and scared little voice, Sam instantly jerking in fear and striding over to him, reaching out as if to help him carry that blanket-wrapped bundle in his arms. Bobby just stared at them, the two Winchester boys unconsciously huddling over the strange child they'd brought with them, who lay limp against Dean's chest, flushed and still. He saw the little face, the dark, messy hair and soft features, and could not reconcile it with the figure who had popped all the lights in that barn in Illinois and burst the door without touching it, immune to salt and runes and symbols and even the demon-killing knife.

Angel or not, though, it was definitely a sick little boy, and Sam and Dean were both quietly going nuts with worry over him. That was enough for Bobby to be going on with. A lightning-fast shiver passed over him, maybe from the cold, maybe not.

"Well, come in," he said gruffly, already pushing back with his hand still on the door knob.

They tumbled inside, and then Dean halted just past the entryway, unsure of where to go, while Sam started vibrating around the room, looking for something to do, picking things up and putting them down, as if one of the demonology books stacked on the side table might have a cure for every childhood illness. Bobby could see that he was going to have to be the sane one in this situation. As usual.

"How long has he been sick?" he asked, reaching out a hand to rest on the boy's forehead. Damn. That was pretty warm.

"Just today," Sam said, picking up a random totem and studying it with fierce concentration. "He started sneezing this morning. And then there was coughing. We thought it was just a little cold. I don't think he even had a fever before we left Missouri's." He paused to look at Dean. "Did he have a fever then, did you notice?"

Dean glanced at Sam, shook his head numbly, then returned his pleading gaze to Bobby. He cradled the boy a little closer, shifting the dark head against his neck, splaying a hand across the narrow ribcage. "I can hardly feel him breathing, Bobby. He was coughing so hard earlier, and now I can hardly feel him breathing."

"Damn it, kid, remember your first aid. His lips aren't blue and his skin isn't gray. He's getting enough oxygen, for now. He's sick, yeah, but you don't get pneumonia in just a day—it takes time to build up that kind of infection. It's probably just the fever, a sudden hard shock to the body like that."

Dean drew in a shuddering breath, staring down at the child's face. Slowly, the panic started to bleed out of his eyes, though the worry remained. Bobby relaxed a little in echoed relief. Behind them, he heard Sam's staccato pacing temper down a bit.

"Now, let's get him comfortable and see if we can't wake him up. I'm betting you didn't really try all that hard before you went all nervous Nellie on us."

"I tried!" Dean protested, already walking toward the davenport where, not too long ago, Sam had slept the sleep of the exhausted, Dean on the floor nearby, both collapsed pretty much where they stood after another long, hard battle. Fool boy didn't lay his burden down, though, just sat himself and arranged the little one against him, leaning one elbow on the pile of throw pillows, holding the dark head reclined on his chest to ease the child's breathing.

Bobby was no doctor. But he knew a little something about almost everything, and more about first aid than most, since those lost boys who kept turning up at his place sometimes came in broken and bleeding. He knew a few tricks. He probably would have made an okay nurse.

After a couple minutes of tapping and rubbing, the boy twitched sluggishly, turning his head to lean harder into Dean. His eyes slid open partway, dark, pupils blown, and a thready moan escaped his lips. Dean hugged him tight for a second, momentarily overwhelmed, before lowering him back down to look in his face, and Sam finally stopped pacing around, coming over to the couch to look down at the kid with wide, relieved eyes.

"Hey, Cas." Bobby had only heard that tender tone from Dean a very few times, when dealing with a hurt or sick Sam, occasionally with a traumatized victim. "How you feeling, buddy? You gave us a scare."

The child lethargically raised a hand far enough to grip Dean's shirt, small fist immediately trembling with the effort. His lips moved, but nothing came out, and his breathing was still shallow, edging on toward erratic, eyes glassy and slightly sunken in his dry, flushed skin. Dean looked back to Bobby, green eyes large and expectant.

Bobby huffed out a breath through his nose. He knew enough to be certain that this kind of stupor and confusion was never good, especially in children. If they were smart, they'd be heading for a hospital right now.

The house shook, a jolt like a single tremor from an earthquake, and Bobby snapped to his feet, instantly alert. Sam had gone still as a hunting dog on point, staring out the front window. Something had hit the wards.

"It's back," the younger Winchester murmured. Dean pulled in a sharp, stuttered gasp.

"What now?" Bobby narrowed a look over at Sam, who seemed to have it slightly more together than his brother. His explanations had been interrupted—Bobby had still been struggling to accept "Castiel is a little kid, and oh, yeah, we found out that angels can become human" before Dean rushed to the porch all frantic-like—and apparently Sam hadn't gotten to the important parts yet.

"Some kind of monster," Sam said shortly. "It's after Cas. That's one reason we were coming to you."

The fact that Sam was using Dean's shortened nickname for their heavenly visitor without irony, but rather with something approaching affection, did more to convince Bobby that this boy was actually Castiel than anything else so far. The first few times he'd heard Dean use the term, it had obviously been out of disrespect and sarcasm. Now it was almost…loving.

He humphed. "Well, thanks for the heads-up."

The kid made a low murmuring sound, weary and pained, and all of them looked back to his face as if pulled by strings. His dry, cracked lips smacked soundlessly together, and Dean reached around to stroke his cheek with one thumb, then looked back to Sam and Bobby. "I think he's dehydrated."

Sam was already moving toward the door. "I'll get the supplies from the car."

Bobby scowled. He itched to go check the wards, try to get a glimpse of whatever was attacking his home, but he knew he had time for that. The child needed treatment _now._ "I'll get the stuff we need. Try to relax, Dean. Little kids get sick all the time. I know it's scary, but he's going to be fine."

It seemed to be the right thing to say. Dean slumped visibly and gave Bobby a short nod, then turned his attention back to the child in his arms. Bobby headed toward the kitchen, listing necessities in his head. This was going to be a long night.

X

_Once again, an angel stood in Bobby's kitchen, but this presence was much less gentle and wondering than the one who had come before. This was Uriel, dark and powerful, hands spread open not in benediction but in aggression. Dean stood watching him from the living room, unwilling to move closer. This was the one who had threatened to throw him back in Hell and actually meant it._

_He couldn't see Uriel's face, just a dark silhouette, limned with moonlight at his back. Then the angel spoke, and Dean had never heard this tone from him before. It was still disdainful, yes, still offended at lowering himself even to speak to a creature of dust, but there was a note of low urgency that in anyone else would have sounded imploring._

_"Dean Winchester. I ask you to help me find my brother. He is in danger. Help me find him."_

_Dean let out an incredulous laugh. "Your brother? You have a brother?"_

_"All angels are brothers, fool." Even in the extremity of deigning to ask a human for assistance, Uriel couldn't seem to help insulting him. "You know the one I speak of. Castiel. He is in danger."_

_"What, your heavenly GPS not working for ya?" Dean shrugged, doing his best to radiate indifference. "Haven't seen him, dude. Maybe try the Yellow Pages?"_

_Uriel's spread hands lowered to his sides, and he shook with suppressed anger. Sh'yeah right, angels couldn't feel emotion. This one seemed to feel plenty. "I knew this was a long shot. But I had hoped that you would care about the divine being who rescued you from Hell. I had hoped that you would understand the need for one brother to look after another."_

_"Hey, I understand, man. Don't get me wrong." Dean lifted one hand in a casual wave. "I get why you're worried about Cas, and I hope he turns up okay. But there's nothing I can do for you, sorry."_

_Uriel turned sharply away. "It was a mistake to come here."_

_A rush of wind, and everything went gray, amorphous, then gone._

Dean opened his eyes, already turning his head to check on Castiel. He'd fallen asleep sometime after midnight, sitting on the floor with his back against the couch, ear only inches from the kid's mouth so he could listen to his breathing. They had gotten the fever below 103 degrees, eventually, gotten some fluids in him, even a half-dose of the antibiotics Bobby kept around the joint just in case it was bacterial and not viral. The boy still rattled when he breathed, though, still too exhausted to cough and get that stuff out of his lungs.

Something niggled at the back of his mind, perhaps something from what he'd just been dreaming, but the vision was already fading. He only remembered Bobby's kitchen, the fierce presence waiting in there to speak to him. It was only natural that he would dream about that encounter with Castiel, he supposed, back here where it had first taken place.

Looking back at that now, he was a little ashamed of his knee-jerk belligerence. Now, he could remember the weariness in Castiel's face and voice, his uncertainty, his cautious attempts to communicate with a human after two thousand years away. Castiel's unstoppable faith slamming against Dean's immovable skepticism—it was no wonder they had clashed.

Dean carefully watched the movement of the boy's chest, the flushed exhaustion in his slack face, idly wondering if little Cas remembered any of that. Probably not—this Castiel would not see that memory as something worth holding onto, not like the memory of Dean saving him from Alastair. That one he had kept with him, all through the confusion and torment of the attack and transformation, all through the long walk to find the Winchesters.

Dean let his aching head lean back against the couch, his gaze roaming over the room. Gray pre-dawn light filtered in the windows, reflecting white off the snow and ice outside. Sam was sacked out on the desk over a pile of books, probably researching ways to take care of the thing outside.

Bobby had gone to bed, Dean dimly remembered, saying he was too old for this sleeping-on-the-floor crap. The older hunter had done plenty before he went, though, what with the bowl of lukewarm water and washcloth to cool Cas down, the ginger tea and various other herbal things, the quick ritual just to make sure it wasn't a supernatural sickness, the gruff advice and genuine concern in his eyes.

As scared and as worried as Dean still was, and would remain until this threat was vanquished and Cas was well again, it was still good to be at Bobby's place. Despite everything, he still believed that in this house, with this man, everything could turn out right.

Dean guessed he had some faith after all. Castiel would be so pleased. As soon as the kid woke up, he would tell him.

He craned his head back to look at the boy again. "Hey, you hearing me?" he murmured. "You gotta wake up, buddy. I got something to tell ya."

Cas slept on, his breath still holding that slight, aching wheeze, but that was okay. Dean knew he would wake up. He was just hoping for sooner rather than later.

TBC


	19. Chapter 19

Guys, I am so close to done on this story that I can almost TASTE it. I know the holidays are a bad time for posting fics, because you're all off being familial or whatever, but I CAN'T STOP. It'll be waiting when you come back. Also, another friend has made a fanvid for this fic. Can you believe it? "Entertaining Angels," now a multimedia experience! I'll put a link in my profile.

**19**

Dean had always been the one with the hunter's instinct. Even Dad, for all his driven power and obsession with destroying every evil he could hunt down, had relied more on ruthless training and thorough research to find and annihilate the things that haunted the night. Sam was self-aware enough to know that he was the same way. Dean, though, seemed born to this life. _Saving people, hunting things_ was for him not a duty, a thankless dirty job that someone had to do, but a passion, a calling, a mission. And he was terrifyingly good at it.

Yet here was Sam, studying monsters in three different books and feeling the sharp, needling sting of something like intuition. None of these were right. He just knew it.

"How's it going?" Bobby leaned against the desk on both hands, peering over at Sam's research. "You find what you were looking for?"

Sam glanced up at him, scratching a hand through his hair, feeling it slide greasily through his fingers. He needed a shower. And some decent sleep. They could wait.

"Yeah, these match the images we saw in Castiel's mind." Sam turned the books slightly so Bobby could get a good look at them.

The older man's eyes narrowed slightly—he had been very quietly weirded out by Sam's explanations of what had gone down in the previous two days, but especially by the idea of Dean and Sam _and_ Missouri all taking a spirit-walk in the memories of an angel-turned-child. He said nothing, though, just looked over the three illustrations with professional appraisal. "A cerberus and a couple of different chimera, huh?"

"That's right. These monsters attacked Castiel, nearly killed him. Along with several dozen various and sundry demons, of course."

"So one of these is outside my house, trying to break in." Sam could see Bobby ticking things off his mind, mentally preparing, reminding himself of where he had stashed the silver bullets, the iron blades, the ritual herbs.

Sam sighed gustily and leaned back in the desk chair. "That's what I'm not sure of."

His eyes slipped to the next room, where he could see Dean sitting in a straight-backed chair next to the couch, quietly reading a book to the sick little boy. Castiel lay limp, unmoving, reclining on a mound of pillows, Missouri's blanket pulled up under his chin, his face turned toward Dean as he listened. His eyes were half-open, still glazed with fever. Sam would lay good money that he was only hearing one word in three of whatever story Dean happened to be reading at the time, but he did his best to pay attention, even so.

"What are you thinking, Sam?"

Sam looked back to Bobby. "I'm thinking that we need to actually see what this thing is. We need a way to lift that invisibility or cloak or whatever it has, a way to see its true form. We can't just go stabbing in the dark."

Bobby's face went still in thought, then he snapped his fingers and stepped around the desk. He opened a drawer and started rooting around, then muttered irritably, shut it, and opened a different one. Sam stood up and backed away, giving him space.

After a minute or so, there was a distinctly triumphant "Ah ha!" sound, and Bobby emerged from the desk with a grin and a round, palm-sized object in his hand. "Knew I had it somewhere. Never throw out anything that might prove useful in the future. Waste not, want not, all that jazz."

Sam couldn't quite suppress a grin. This smiling, pleased-with-himself Bobby was completely disarming. "What is it?"

In answer, Bobby reached out and dropped the object in Sam's hand. "Don't tell me you can't figure it out."

Sam turned the thing over in his hand. It was smooth, heavy, cool. It would have been the perfect skipping rock—just the thing to throw sidearm over a still lake to watch it stutter and fly all the way out to the middle—if it wasn't for the wide, irregular hole bored through the center.

Sam's eyes widened. "Natural?" The question was reverent, almost a breath.

Bobby nodded, still wearing that shit-eating grin. "It was under a ledge where spray off a waterfall dripped on it just right for, oh, I dunno. Long time. Got passed to me by another hunter. Lucky thing, though most people don't think of it."

"Does it work?"

"Well, I saw the seelie folk in Europe and a mermaid off the coast of Florida while looking through it. So yeah. I think it works."

Sam barely paused to throw on his jacket before barreling out into the cold, porch door swinging noisily shut behind him. He crunched through the snow, making his way through the wrecks toward the edge of the circle of iron and salt Bobby had buried after the last time ghosts had attacked this place. The ward would be broken eventually, of course—they all were—but for now it was holding, and they always had the panic room to fall back on.

He climbed up on the hood of a derelict truck for a better vantage point, holding the stone ring to his eye. "Show yourself!" he called, fearless, no longer desperate with anger and newly awakened protectiveness. He was confident, now. All he had to do was see it. If he knew what it was, he could kill it.

"Come out, come out, wherever you are! I'm not afraid of you!"

He did a slow pan, right to left, looking around the circle stone, thorough and exacting. The world through the lens of truth looked little different than the world without—a bit sharper and clearer, lit on the edges with light that wasn't usually visible, both sharp and opaque. He was going to find the monster, uncover its secrets. He didn't care how long it took.

The first part of the beast that Sam saw was a curl of smoke sweeping along in the brisk wind, several yards off the ground. He followed that to a red snout, teeth like long, curved knives, dirty ivory, curled in a laughing reptilian mouth. His breath quickening, he swept across the rest of the creature, a sinuous tail, leathery black wings shifting over a powerfully muscled back, eyes like yellow gemstones peering with unblinking malice.

Sam stumbled back and jumped backward off the truck. Too close—he couldn't see the entire creature up so close, seeming only bare inches away from where he stood. He jogged a few yards toward the house, turned around and looked again, already knowing what it was, his breath jumping in his chest, cold air cutting his lungs.

A dragon. It was a dragon.

It stood at the edge of the ward's border, not attempting to move around, to make it more difficult for Sam to find it. The skeletal wings, folded over its back like some kind of hellish origami, rode gently up and down with its massive breaths, the movement of the enormous chest seeming somehow impossible, unholy, obscene. It was too big to be real. Sheer physics declared that such a thing should be collapsing under its own weight, not sitting on its haunches and laughing silently at the human who dared to taunt it, sulfurous breath snorting out of its fist-sized nostrils in chimney smoke-puffs.

"I'm going to kill you," Sam told it calmly. "I don't know how, but I'm going to kill you."

The dragon from Hell just kept laughing.

Sam jumped slightly when Bobby grabbed his shoulder, coming up behind him. "Let me see, son." The command was quiet, calm.

Sam handed over the circle stone, his breath still coming in erratic pulls, adrenaline surging through his body. Strangely, he still felt no fear. A dragon. It was a dragon.

Dean was either going to love this, or be really, really pissed.

Bobby stood there looking through the stone for awhile, still as a man scoping out the enemy laying siege to his home could be. Sam saw no increase in the older hunter's breathing, no tension in his shoulders. From Bobby's reaction, it might appear that he saw nothing at all.

"Huh." Bobby lowered the stone and looked to Sam, jaw working thoughtfully. "It's a dragon."

Sam nodded. "You know how to kill a dragon?"

"Guess we'll find out."

They returned to the house to find Dean kneeling by the couch, once again wiping Castiel's forehead and cheeks with a wet washcloth, murmuring soothing nonsense, his voice a calm veneer over a well of anxiety. The boy's eyes were closed, his breathing harsh and irregular, rasping in his throat. It was so loud.

The book lay abandoned on the floor, open facedown, pages bent and in danger of creasing. Sam rescued the book, for lack of anything better to do. He could hear Bobby in the kitchen, fetching the lavender oil, the antibiotics, more tea, something.

Dean looked up at Sam, his face carefully still, almost expressionless. "He's too hot. He's too hot, Sam. I think he's getting worse."

Bobby came back with cold packs, ice in Ziploc bags, prepared last night and placed in the freezer, now wrapped in hand towels and ready for use. They had all hoped that they wouldn't need them. Dean moved aside to let him work, watching without blinking as Bobby placed cold compresses on the boy's forehead, chest, groin. Castiel whimpered breathlessly at the icy touch, and Sam's fingernails bit into his palms.

"Sorry, baby," Dean murmured, cupping a hot cheek in his palm, wrapping his other arm around the boy's abdomen to hold him still. "I know it hurts. Just for a little while, okay? We have to get your fever down."

The boy tried to toss his head back and forth, trying to displace the pack there, and Dean let out a breath of pain and held him still. "Sorry, sorry, sorry." It was a bare whisper now, an audible wince.

Sam turned away, back to the desk, the books. He had a dragon to kill.

"I should have stopped."

Bobby sighed. "Kid, you can't…"

"I noticed when he stopped coughing but I thought… We even passed a couple of hospitals but I didn't… I should have realized. I shouldn't have made him run back at the park. I should have…"

"What, Dean? What?"

"Something."

Sam stepped back. This was something he could do. Even if it was only an echo, far less powerful than the original. "Dean. Anger not."

Dean looked up at him, his eyes too large, too bright. Of course, Dean couldn't cry for himself, but for others, especially when he thought he was at fault for their pain…

"Anger not," Sam said again, nudging Dean's leg with his foot. "C'mon, man. You want Cas to get mad at you? He totally will. He's told you _so many times_ now, and you still don't get it. Sad okay. Anger not."

A short laugh tore out of Dean, sounding entirely involuntary, watery and choked. "Yeah, okay. I get you. Anger not. I'll try, I promise. Wouldn't want Cas to get mad at me."

Sam shook his head seriously. "It's pretty dangerous to get Castiel angry. He'll, you know…cry on you. Get you all wet. It will be very uncomfortable."

Bobby humphed at them. "If you ask me, you're both all wet already."

Dean laughed again, slightly more genuine this time. He looked back to Castiel, who had fallen still and quiet, no longer struggling. Maybe it was just Sam's imagination, but he thought that maybe the fever flush was starting to recede.

Bobby pushed himself up off the floor, groaning as his knees popped. "All right, all right, enough of this fool talk. Ten more minutes, then take off the cold packs." Dean nodded gravely, and the older man looked at Sam. "Let's get cracking on those books."

Sam turned to the desk again, this time not in helplessness but in fierce determination. They had a dragon to kill.

TBC


	20. Chapter 20

**20**

Later, when Castiel was sleeping more or less peacefully, Sam and Bobby filled Dean in on the particulars of the enemy at the door. By the look on his face, it was clear that Christmas had come early for Dean Winchester.

"You're shitting me! A dragon? There's a real live dragon out on the lawn? We get to fight a dragon? You've got to be shitting me."

Just as suddenly, though, his face clouded over, rage furrowing his forehead, darkening his eyes, thinning his lips. It was like watching a tornado touch down in an Iowa field—all pretty waving corn one moment, utter destruction and chaos in the next. "Wait a second. Alastair sent a _dragon_ after Cas? An honest-to-God damsel-eating, town-destroying, fire-breathing dragon? Holy hell. I really, really want to hit him in the face with a crowbar. Again."

Bobby handed him the stone ring, and Dean went outside and looked for awhile, then came back in, muttering, "Son of a bitch," and "Holy freaking shit," and several other phrases that it was just as well Castiel couldn't hear.

It looked like Sam had been right—Dean both loved this and was really, really, _really_ pissed.

X

Castiel wasn't getting better. By the end of the second day at Bobby's, this was abundantly clear. He needed a hospital. He needed a diagnosis, and the right kind of antibiotics, and oxygen, and sterility, and people who knew what the hell they were doing with a desperately ill eight-year-old child. Bobby and the Winchesters kept having to use cold packs to keep his fever below a dangerous level, and every time, every single freaking time, it hurt a little bit more. They still held off on the drastic measure of an ice bath, though, afraid that the shock would be too much for the young, weakened body.

It came to the point that Dean regretted instructing the boy to tell him when it hurt. He regretted it with all his heart. Because he hadn't known, he hadn't realized, what it would be like to hear that small, aching voice, breathless and broken, telling him that he hurt, he hurt, and to not be able to do a thing to make it better. Sometimes it was the only word that Cas could say for hours at a time, and that only with several minutes of panting and weak, unproductive coughing in between. Every time, Dean thought that surely this would be it, this one little syllable would finally be too much, would just kill him where he stood, and every time, it didn't.

If he could have taken the boy's place, he would have done it in a heartbeat.

He thought that maybe now he finally, finally understood exactly what his dad had been thinking in that hospital room, watching Dean die.

X

The lore on dragons was spotty and pretty much useless. It wasn't that it was hard to find—this was the opposite problem. Too much information, mostly contradictory. Bobby even had a whole book full of dragon-fighting tactics, badly translated from Middle English, including sections on how to fight them on the ground, in the air, over rough terrain, through a mountain pass. But that was assuming that the dragon was just a beast, like a bear or a cougar, smart and tough but still made of muscle and bone. Their particular problem had been sent straight from Hell. Sam was pretty sure he could still smell the sulfur even when he was in the house, separated from the thing by a hundred yards and two closed doors.

He and Bobby spent hours outside, studying the thing through the circle stone, looking for clues. They noticed that it left gouges in the dirt, moved plants and objects as it lumbered around (a junked concrete mixer groaned metallically as the dragon leaned against it, scratching its scaly back), so it was at least partially corporeal. It ate birds from the air, so it needed sustenance, or at least was not incompatible with it. The wards were affecting it, though it constantly worked at digging up the iron and salt and applied spiritual pressure to the invisible barriers, so it wasn't immune to human tools and materials.

Sam finally decided that they should just go classic and see what happened. Unfortunately, Bobby's arsenal, while massive and eclectic, did not include an iron-tipped lance, nor any kind of spear, nor even a decent, non-decorative halberd.

Bobby just snorted when he complained. "You're telling me that you need something long and sharp and metal to kill this monster with? Really, that's what you're telling me?" His voice was dry as dust, twice as spare. "Have you happened to notice that you're in the middle of a _junkyard,_ kid?"

Across the room, Dean gave his first real laugh in what felt like months. Sam grinned, and started sketching a design.

Bobby had a metal shop on the property, too, and luckily it was also inside the wards. He was perfectly willing to show Sam how to use it.

X

The dragon took out the phone and power lines. Bobby had a generator of course, bless him, but there was no more internet, and cell phone reception was always a little iffy out here. It didn't really matter, of course, since they'd already been planning to kill it, but it was still annoying. And the fuel for the generator was not unlimited.

Before long they had a sort of routine going, trading off jobs—tending Castiel, watching the dragon, working on Sam's metal lance with the lathe in the workshop. Sometimes there was sleep and a meal in there, too. They didn't talk about it, but they all knew which job was the hardest. Listening to little Cas trying to breathe through his crowded, infected lungs tore at all three of them.

The lance was taking shape. It wasn't pretty, welded from several different junked parts, none of the metals exactly matching in color or tone, stitched together like Frankenstein's monster. It was functional, though, and long, and lethal, and very, very sharp. It wasn't pretty, but in its own way, it was beautiful.

The time was coming.

X

Dean woke from another dream of a vaguely threatening, vaguely pleading voice. _Help me find my brother. He is in danger._ He was half-sitting, half-laying on the couch, Castiel propped against his chest, hot little face pressed against his sternum. Still breathing. Still alive.

He was still for a time, trying to remember the dream. It seemed like he had it every time he went to sleep, always with slight variations, always ending with that demanding voice growing angry, petulant, and then fading away. It was weird and unsettling, but at least he wasn't dreaming about Hell.

Castiel spasmed weakly against him, his body once again struggling to cough, to expel the junk that clogged his breathing, and once again failing. It was time to try steaming up the bathroom again, try to help loosen it up. Hadn't worked so well last time, but they couldn't quit trying.

Dean laid his hand over the boy's chest, feeling the rapid, shallow rise and fall. "Cas? You awake?"

The kid lay still for a moment, gathering strength, then nodded into his chest.

"Think you can drink something? We need to get some water in you."

He didn't respond, just let out a breath that would have been a sigh if there'd been any strength behind it. Dean reached over to the coffee table and snagged the bottle of electrolyte solution Sam kept refilling, then held it to the boy's lips. Castiel took tiny sips until he couldn't anymore, then sputtered and coughed, water spilling down his chin. Dean put the bottle back on the table and snugged the kid against his chest, murmuring dishonest comfort. "It's okay, it's okay. It's okay, kiddo. You're gonna be okay."

Dean had never been a praying man. Even now, with the existence of God pretty much irrefutable, he wasn't sure he actually believed that praying did any good, that the Guy in the Sky really gave a damn about anything happening on this crappy planet. But for this small, helpless child, it seemed that he was willing to change all kinds of behaviors, break all kinds of habits, including this one.

_Don't You dare abandon this kid. If You exist, You'd better not leave him like this, You giant asshole. He's one of Yours, through and through. If You can't do anything for him, You're worse than useless. Don't You dare let him die._

Okay, so Dean wasn't that great at praying. He was trying. He was doing his best.

X

The lance had a three-prong tip, blood channels down both sides, spring-loaded spikes that could be extended with a push on the end of the staff. Sam had based it on drawings of historical weapons, with a few slight changes of his own. He had read the descriptions, the accounts. He knew what was needed to cut, to flay, to murder flesh and spill blood in lethal spurts.

The tip at the end was thin, flat, rapidly widening and thickening down the blade to the two extensions. It was designed to slip in a crack, any crack, between massive armored scales, and it was perfectly engineered for the following thrust deep into the vulnerable flesh beneath. He'd been watching the dragon very carefully—he'd seen the hairline point of vulnerability where the chest plates merged into the smaller scales on the front of its throat. Such a small chance, but it was a chance. What Dean could find in a single flurried, hot-blooded glance, Sam could see, too, given enough time to study and prepare.

Bobby had found an incantation that claimed to be able to weaken any denizen of Hell, but the recitation had to be constant and unbroken, or it would have no effect. That would be his task, while Sam went in with the lance. Dean and the demon-slaying knife would be distraction, and potentially backup. Desperate, last-chance backup. Going against a dragon with a close-range weapon like that was pretty much the worst idea ever, and even Dean admitted it, though reluctantly.

Sam had half-expected there to be an argument about who used the lance. If anyone in the family was going to be a dragonslayer, it seemed that the task should naturally fall to Dean. But he had only shrugged and said, "It's your weapon, Sammy. You made it. You get to use it."

That wasn't strictly true. They had all taken turns working on the lance. But Sam had designed it and instructed the other two in its making, and he was the one who had first blooded it, accidentally cutting his thumb on the razor-thin edge the first time he sharpened it. By ancient tradition and by Winchester understanding, that made it his.

X

Nighttime again, but Dean was barely aware of the cycle of light and darkness anymore. The only cycle that meant anything to him right now was Castiel waking and sleeping, coughing and panting breathlessly, taking nourishment and fluids, lucid and delirious, listening wearily and staring away. In the morning they were going to slay the dragon, and that didn't even sound cool to him anymore, because all he cared about was that Cas kept breathing until they killed it.

He told him so, too, in halting broken words, while those glassy dark blue eyes held to his face, like his old unearthly stare, but so tired now, so hurt, so half-there. "You just gotta hold on for a little while longer, okay? You can't go away yet because…because you just can't, all right? Are you hearing me? I know you like it here. You showed us so in a hundred ways, in just a day. And I l…I like having you here, too. So you can't go. You can't go."

Sam, lying on the floor on the other side of the room, his eyes still closed, but his voice clear and strong: "God, Dean, just say it. You giant pussy. It's not like any of us don't already know."

So Dean leaned his forehead against Castiel's and whispered the words. "You remember what you told me in that gross, stinky bathroom? Same goes for you. Love you. Want you to be okay."

Castiel closed his eyes, but he kept breathing.

X

The morning of the fourth day, a resounding boom woke them, roused them stumbling to their feet in the bitter line of dawn.

"That was the outer ward," Bobby said grimly. "It's gone."

Sam looked at the lance, propped in the corner.

Dean didn't say anything. The most recent dream was clear and sharp in his head, unfaded. He'd been woken before he could piss Uriel off enough to make the cranky angel go off and take the memory of their meeting with him.

He'd been wondering where God was, why He wasn't answering Dean's prayers, as stupid and impious as they were. Now he realized, in a staggering rush of clarity, that the answer had been coming to him every night.

Uriel had found Castiel's grace, what the demons had ripped away and spread across the universe. Every night, there it was, gleaming in his hands. He'd gathered it all together, patiently hunting down every last shred, collecting it, sheltering it, bringing it back to heal his wounded brother.

Dean knew what he had to do. But he didn't want to do it.

He didn't want to do it one tiny bit.

TBC


	21. Chapter 21

**21**

Bobby and Sam were bustling around, shrugging into coats, grabbing supplies. Bobby had a book, a couple of guns. Sam had the harness-like contraption they'd pieced together to hold the stone ring against his eye, leaving both hands free for the lance. Both occasionally glanced at the window, even though the other wards were still holding, so the dragon couldn't be coming toward the house. Not yet, anyway.

But the time was now. The monster was going down.

Dean stood still in the middle of the room, watching them. He had to swallow several times to work up the moisture to talk. "You guys go ahead. I'll…I'll be right behind you."

Sam nodded absently and gave him an understanding glance as he headed out the door. Bobby looked at him a little longer, wise brown eyes so knowing, as always, piercing straight through him. They thought they knew exactly why he was hesitating to leave the house. They didn't.

Dean turned to the window to watch them go, saw them striding purposefully through the salvage yard, Sam leading and Bobby only a few steps behind. The younger Winchester looked like a warrior, a hero, an illustration from a book, tall and strong and certain, jaw square and hard, eyes focused and intent, hefting that long, wicked-looking weapon in both hands with purpose and strength. He knew what he was doing. They both did.

Dean, though…

He turned to Castiel, watching him sleep. It had been almost fifteen hours since he'd said a word, and yes, Dean was keeping count. Ten hours since he'd managed to sip some diluted soup. Six hours since he had looked at Dean with any kind of lucidity. Three hours since the last time he'd woken gasping and choking, his breaths stuttering, almost halting altogether, then hung over Dean's arm sobbing for air while Dean clapped his back, trying to loosen the phlegm, help him get the oxygen he needed. One hour since Dean had noticed the blue-gray tinge around his lips, slowly growing deeper.

He didn't want to lose this kid. God, he didn't want to lose him. He and Sam…they had thought he was theirs. But Cas had never really belonged to them, not really—he was just on loan. And if Dean didn't do what he knew he had to do, he was going to lose him anyway.

There was no choice here. There never really had been, and Dean was an idiot for ever thinking that he had any kind of control over this situation.

Movements harsh and jerking, Dean got a metal bowl from the kitchen, a lighter from the box by the fireplace. Kneeling by Castiel, he fished out the hex bag hidden in the couch cushions. He had to shift the boy a few inches to the side to find it, but Cas didn't stir, just lay there limp and unconscious, breathing through his mouth, chest barely moving.

Dean laid a hand on his cheek and just looked at him for a long moment, memorizing his features. Then he put the hex bag in the bowl and lit it on fire.

His hands weren't shaking. They weren't.

He knelt there, waiting, long enough for the second hand to sweep twice around the clock on the wall. Long enough for Cas to breathe a hundred and three times. Long enough for his palms to sweat and his stomach to twist.

So Uriel wasn't a punctual bastard. Good to know.

Dean could hear Bobby chanting, even through the walls of the house. And that low rumble, rising and falling, full of evil intent…that might have been a dragon roaring, growling, declaring its intention to kill. Dean pushed himself to his feet and strode out the door, throwing on a jacket and drawing Ruby's knife as his foot hit the ground outside.

The incantation was working, obviously. The dragon had become visible. Not fully—Dean could see through it to the trees on the other side, the telephone pole broken jaggedly in the middle like a ship's mast torn away by a cannonball. It was as big as Bobby's house, gaping mouth like the open door of a forge revealing a bed of red-hot coals.

Sam stood in the bed of a junked pick-up truck, one foot up on the side, lance held like a vaulter's pole, as if he was just waiting for the right moment to run forward and leap right over the monster's back. The dragon swung its head toward him, nostrils pouring gray-white smoke, and Sam jumped to the roof of a Toyota, long legs steady and graceful, feet firm as those of a goat on a mountainside.

Bobby's spell was in Greek, so Dean didn't know most of the words, but he recognized the flowing syllables and complex words. The older man's voice was steady, constant, a solid foundation to fight on. Dean could see the dragon's attention wavering toward Bobby, wanting to put an end to the words that weakened it—and the man who spoke them—but Sam constantly shoved himself in the way, demanding that the dragon remain focused on him to prevent immediate impalement.

Dean stalked forward, feeling the rage rise up in him like a tide, welcoming its fuel. "Hey, _bitch!"_ he yelled, commanding. "Hell sent you to kill an angel, huh? Didja think he'd be alone? Didja think he'd be helpless? Time to think again, you fire-breathing freak!"

The heavy head swung toward him, transparent yellow eyes sparking with mad fire. Oh yeah, it understood him, the tone if not the words. "That's right," Dean said with grim satisfaction, crossing the ward's border to stand beneath the dragon's mouth. "Come and get some. We're gonna send you back to the Pit where you belong, and there's nothing you can do to stop us."

The plan had been for Dean to distract it while Sam found a spot to strike with the lance. Dean was following the plan. If he was throwing himself into his role with maybe a little more fierce glee than Sam would be happy with, well, it was too late to change it now.

Sam was too busy fighting to glare at Dean like he probably wanted to, though. Dean's pride was fuel, too, watching his little brother come at the monster like a knight in a light tan coat, movements hard and efficient, not a step wasted, dancing among the cars, leaping from roof to hood to truck bed and down to the ground again, looking for his opening.

Dean was dancing, too, ducking and weaving, darting in and out, never staying within striking distance for more than a second at a time. The dragon snapped at him, then turned back to Sam, advancing and backing away, clearly unsure of what to do and pretty damn angry about it. The puff of black smoke through the nostrils was always a dead giveaway that a blast of fire was coming, giving them plenty of time to get out of the way, but they left scorched and blackened cars in their wake, craters on the ground, snow not melted but obliterated.

They were on both sides of the thing now, taking turns, tag-teaming it, the dragon-slaying Winchester boys working in perfect concert. The transparency gradually seeped away, color bleeding in like dye on cotton, spreading, then covering. Dean saw his chance and ran in, struck the knife a cut across a tendon as thick as his wrist in a shower of supernatural sparks, then sprinted back before it could turn on him.

The cut blazed. The dragon roared, and that leg went dead, useless. Not a fatal wound, but a helluva good one, if Dean did say so himself. He grinned, wide and glad, glad, watching for another chance like that one.

But it was Sam's turn now to find his opening, perching precariously on the hood of a semi, one foot braced on the cracked and bending windshield. The lance went in, smooth and bright as solid lightning, finding a vulnerable point between neck and chest. The dragon howled, and Sam pushed harder, twisted. Dean saw him shove it in the way that he knew would spring the spikes, already buried in the monster's flesh.

The earth shook as the dragon crashed to its massive knees, a creature of hell pinned on a human weapon, writhing and stuck. Only then did the wings unfold, trying to lift it away. But this was one thing that it could do in Hell but couldn't do here—earthly physics disallowed this one thing.

"Gotcha."

Sam's voice was not gloating or smug, though Dean wouldn't have blamed him if it had been. He simply sounded calmly gratified, a workman well-pleased with the tool he had crafted. The dragon twisted and wailed, eyes rolling, puking misaimed smoke and fire toward the sky. Sam held onto the shaft of his weapon, grim, solid, immovable. There was no chance of escape.

Bobby's voice continued in the background, a rising crescendo as the monster weakened. Sam slowly swung the dragon's neck down in an irresistible arc, forcing its head to the ground. Dean stepped forward, calmly side-stepping the last, weak billows of fire. He stepped on the dragon's snout, forcing its mouth shut, ignoring the sparks that spurted from its clenched teeth.

Dean saw the spot between its eyes, the vulnerable point where only a thin shell of blood and bone protected the brain, and stabbed Ruby's knife through it like an icepick swung sharply down, pouring every single ounce of anger and frustration and grief and pain into the thrust.

A last, muffled whimper, a pathetic wisp of smoke rising and dying in the frosty air, and the dragon was dead.

X

"We did it. We did it, Dean."

They had done it. Sam and Dean Winchester had killed a dragon. Sam grinned at his brother over the dead beast's head, heat surging through his veins, fierce and bright. It was finished. They had killed it together.

Dean just stared back at him grimly, though, no joy in his face. Sam's grin faltered.

He looked to Bobby, moving toward them, carrying the closed ritual book in one hand. The older man was grinning, too, his steps light as he walked through the patches of scorched earth. "Hell of a thing, boys," he said, clapping Dean on the shoulder and gazing proudly down at the dead dragon. "Hell of a thing."

Dean nodded. He snapped Ruby's knife out of the dragon's head with a sick slurping sound, wiped it on the dirt, sheathed it. Then he started walking back toward the house. There was no victory in his posture, his expression. For the life of him, Sam couldn't figure out what was going on.

He realized that he was still holding the lance and let it go. "Bobby, will you finish up here?" The question was distracted, and he barely spared the second it took to see Bobby's nod before he headed after his brother.

"Dean? What's going on, man?"

Dean just shook his head, still walking. Sam followed at his heels, suddenly worried. He would have expected Dean to be crowing, cocky, incandescent with delight. Instead he looked…defeated.

Up the porch and into the house, and Sam gasped at the tall, dark figure standing over the couch, looking down at the sleeping boy. He reached forward to grab Dean's arm, expecting him to be in full fighting mode, but his brother just stood there, breathing harshly in and out. The intruder turned, and Sam understood it even less. Uriel, strangely less belligerent than the last time they'd seen him, his shoulders slumped and weary.

"You finally got my message, monkey," he said to Dean, but his voice lacked the condescension that should have been there.

"You finally let me remember it, dickhead," Dean said in the same tone.

Sam blinked, hard. "Dean, what…"

The other man finally turned to look at him, barely holding back a sigh. "Dickhead here has been trying to talk to me in my dreams for the last few days, but somehow we never quite came to an understanding until today."

"You…you burned the hex bag? Why?"

"Because Castiel is dying," Uriel said, deigning to look at Sam for a split-second, his dark eyes hot and high. "And as stupid as your brother is, he has enough brain cells firing, however erratically, to realize that only I can heal him."

Sam looked to his brother, and Dean looked back at him, green eyes large and mournful. So it was true. "But how…"

"He found Cas's grace. Demons took it, scattered it all over. Uriel found it, brought it back."

"But that means…"

"He'll be an angel again," Uriel confirmed. "He was never meant to be a human—of course you must realize this. I'm surprised he lasted this long."

"A week? You're surprised he lasted a week?" Sam laughed, hard and angry, and realized that tears were springing up in his eyes, unwanted, unwelcome, but undeniable. "So you're saying that God made a mistake then, giving him a body, sending him down here. I thought God didn't make mistakes?"

Uriel's forehead wrinkled. "Where did you get that idiotic idea? God didn't do this. Castiel chose. He used the last bit of grace he had—far too little for the task—and he brought himself down here of his own volition. Of course it was imperfect. He was nearly dead at the time, far from capable of performing such a feat well."

Dean drew in a breath, shaking his head in sudden confusion. "What, and you're okay with this? With your angel brother choosing to be a human? I'd woulda thought you'd be pissed about something like that."

The dark angel gave him a glare, hard and real, pushing away his weariness. "Of course I'm not 'okay with this.' Castiel was wounded, his judgment impaired. He needed somewhere to recuperate and he chose poorly, that's all. I will not abandon my brother for making one foolish decision while delirious and near death."

"So you've come to rectify his mistake." Dean folded his arms over his chest, but Sam could see that it was more to shield himself than to display any real stubbornness. Dean had accepted this.

This sucked. Sam might even go so far as to say that it sucked out loud.

He wanted to ask Uriel to just heal the boy and let him be. Angels could do that, right? Castiel had healed Dean.

But Uriel would never do that. He would never leave an angel, even transformed into a child, in the care of humans. And he wanted his brother back. Sam could understand that.

It didn't stop the ridiculous, useless tears from streaming down his face, though. Sam wiped at them angrily, but that didn't really help either. Dean was dry-eyed, and he was stupidly furious at him for it.

There was nothing else to say. Uriel turned away from them and knelt by the couch, resting his hand on the little boy's head. It was so strange to see tenderness in this being of prejudice and rage and destructive power, but there it was, soft and bright. Castiel didn't even shift under the touch, too far gone even to realize that his brother had come for him.

Uriel put his hands to his chest, and when he drew them out they were full of soft, glimmering light. This time it was not imprisoned in a vial, just held gently in large, callused hands, pooling and swirling as if alive. He poured the grace onto the boy's chest, letting it roll out of his hands like a lost pet brought home to its griefstricken owner.

"Close your eyes," he said softly.

Sam obeyed, hoping that Dean was, too. Behind his closed eyelids, light burgeoned and grew until the purity was unbearable, stabbing through the thin shield of flesh, and he raised his hands to cover himself in darkness.

When he lowered his hands, blinking hard and fast, Castiel and Uriel were gone.

Dean stood there silent for a moment, then lifted Missouri's afghan from the couch, abandoned and crumpled, empty. Slowly, carefully, he folded it in half, in quarters, in eighths. Then he held it to his chest, wrapped his arms around it.

He didn't say a word.

**Epilogue**

Another town, another playground. This time it was in one of the warmer states, still nice out despite the month. Sometimes Dean sort of hated himself for always gravitating to these places. But there was still something peaceful, something right, about watching children play, innocent and free, ignorant of the darkness. Despite everything, he still felt better, sitting on this bench, drinking his coffee and listening to young laughter ringing in the air.

"Hello, Dean."

Dean felt a smile spread over him, soft and real, and then turned his head to look, knowing what he'd see. "You got your old vessel back."

Castiel nodded, self-consciously fingering the opening of his trench coat. Dean looked away, remembering little fingers that had loved rubbing over fabrics, feeling textures, exploring the world. "I had left him behind, going off to think alone. It was…foolish of me. When I was isolated, that was when they attacked."

"Yeah, and we all know how that worked out."

Castiel nodded gravely.

They sat in companionable silence, watching the children play.

Dean didn't want to ask, but he had to know. "What…what do you remember?"

"Everything, I think. Not all of it clear, though." Castiel tilted his head, staring at him. Still those same impenetrable blue eyes, yet somehow Dean felt that he knew them better, now. "It's like looking through water, viewing those memories. Easier than when I was a child trying to remember being an angel, though."

"Do you…do you regret it? Uriel called it a mistake. I probably would, too. You were…you were awfully sick, Cas. You went through a lot of pain."

"I don't regret it."

The answer was swift, firm, no hesitation, no doubt. Dean looked away, smiling, unable to stop himself.

"I meant everything I said, too," Castiel added. "I…I want you to know, Dean. Uriel was wrong. When I was hurting, near death, I didn't choose the wrong place to recuperate. I chose exactly right."

Dean nodded and looked down at his coffee. He could feel Cas staring at him, though, and eventually he was forced to look up, meet his eyes again.

"I meant everything I said," the angel repeated quietly. "Sad okay. Anger not."

Dean couldn't help it. He laughed.

"I remember what you taught me." Stubborn now, still trying to get through to him.

Dean grinned. "Oh yeah? What do you say when you have to use the bathroom?"

"Racehorse."

The word was uttered so seriously, so calmly, in the same tone Castiel used to proclaim judgement on the most vile demons. Dean laughed again, or guffawed, rather, and set his empty coffee cup aside. He had to admit that he was pretty damn tickled about that one, despite everything.

Castiel stood up, gesturing for Dean to do the same. "Come."

Dean was confused, but rose to his feet. "What?"

The angel was already walking, long coat flapping around him. Without thinking about it too hard, Dean fell in step with him. "What? I don't get it."

"I told you. I remember what you taught me." Castiel stepped down in the sand of the playground, grabbing Dean's sleeve to drag him along. And then Dean saw where they were going. "Swinging is fun. I remember that very clearly. Come now, Dean. You swing, too."

Dean laughed, and let him lead the way.

"Yeah," he agreed, quiet but heartfelt. "Swings are awesome."

The End

**A/N:** KEEP COOL, MY BABIES! Alternate ending coming tomorrow.


	22. Chapter 22

**Author's Note:** I just want to thank all of you guys for your amazing support and love for this story. This experience wouldn't have been nearly so enjoyable for me without all of your spazzing and freakouts and glee and gifts of art and other things and berating characters in the comments and threatening to kill Ruby and Uriel and constant smooshies and putting the story in favorites and alerts and GIANT FREAKING HEARTS, really, seriously, you're amazing. Happy Solstice, Happy Chanukah, Merry Christmas, Happy Kwanzaa, Meli Kalikimaka, Feliz Navidad, and have a really, really ridiculously wonderful 2009. And now, here is a little present from me to all of you. Take it as being a gift for whatever holiday you celebrate, along with lots and lots of love from me.

So, picking up in the middle of that last scene…

**Alternate Ending**

There was nothing else to say. Uriel turned away from them and knelt by the couch, resting his hand on the little boy's head. It was so strange to see tenderness in this being of prejudice and rage and destructive power, but there it was, soft and bright. Castiel shifted under the light touch, a breathy moan escaping his lips.

Uriel put his hands to his chest, and when he drew them out they were full of soft, glimmering light. This time it was not imprisoned in a vial, just held gently in large, callused hands, pooling and swirling as if alive. He poured the grace onto the boy's chest, letting it roll out of his hands like a lost pet brought home to its griefstricken owner.

Castiel jerked as it touched down, his eyes flying open with a startled gasp. Before any of them could react, his hands flew out, pulled at the grace, detaching it from his body and holding it balled it small, trembling hands. "No, no," he whispered, voice broken and cracked, nearly inaudible.

"Castiel." Uriel's voice was shocked. This was strange, too, to hear this supremely confident creature sound uncertain and amazed. "You must be healed. You must return to your true place in the universe."

Feverish blue eyes tracked slowly over to the tall angel's face. "Uri…" His lips moved, but he couldn't seem to shape the last syllable. "Uri. No."

Uriel's brow furrowed. His voice was patient, but here came a touch of that condescension Sam had been waiting for. He explained the situation slowly and calmly, trying to reason with the sick child. "Castiel, you are dying. You are not meant to be a human. You made a bad decision. It is time to fix it."

"No, Uri. No…go. I stay. I stay." Castiel held the ball of shining light toward his brother, his hands shaking. "Mission. Purpose. Dean. Dean needs…Dean needs me. Needs me."

"Dean needs an angel, my brother. The world needs angels. Warriors. We need you. We need you to return to us."

Holy crap. Sam thought Uriel's voice might actually be shaking with emotion. Never would have expected that one.

But Castiel's cracked lips firmed at this, hard and thin. Stubbornness—another thing he had learned from Dean. "Other angels. You, others. Dean needs me. Needs me…human. Human, Uri. This."

The effort of putting so many words together was clearly exhausting him, his hands slowly sinking in the air. He had to pause for breath between every short, painful statement. Sam felt Dean jerk next to him, longing to go to the boy, help him somehow. But he held still, quivering faintly.

"Castiel…" Uriel's voice was wavering, balanced on some thin edge. Sam held his breath, wondering wildly which way he would fall.

"This," Castiel whispered, voice all but gone. "This. I know. I here. This right."

"But, Castiel, my brother…"

"Trust. Trust me, Uri. This right."

Uriel finally raised his hands, catching Castiel's as they sank. He cradled the child's small hands in his, and liquid grace ran out through the pale, slender fingers, gathering in the larger angel's palms. "Very well," he said quietly. "You have made your decision. I will trust your judgment."

Castiel sighed softly and let his eyes fall shut, the last of his energy finally giving out. Uriel tucked the grace away again, but remained kneeling there on the floor, watching his brother struggle to breathe. He laid his large hand on Castiel's forehead, then on his chest, closing his eyes. Sam thought he saw a glimmer of light, like starshine reflecting off a frozen lake, quick and fleeting.

The boy's breath evened, deepened. A faint tinge of healthy color began to creep into his deathly pale cheeks, the hectic points of fever-flush fading away. The painful tension leaked out of his shoulders, leaving him fully relaxed, sleeping peacefully.

It was so good to hear him breathing easily, finally, no longer fighting for every shallow mouthful of air. Sam realized that he was still crying, but for an entirely different reason now. He no longer felt embarrassed by it.

Uriel opened his eyes and climbed slowly to his feet. He turned to Dean and Sam, his eyes hard, though his expression was resigned and sorrowful.

"Take care of him."

It was both a threat and a promise. Dean's eyes sparked, but he just nodded. Uriel stepped back from them. A flutter of shadowed wings, stirring the papers still littered across the desk, and he was gone.

Bobby burst noisily in the door, stomping his snowy boots on the rug. "Hey!" he called as he turned the corner into the main room. "Did I miss something?"

Sam sobbed, then laughed. He looked over at Dean, saw that he was grinning foolishly, eyes wide and bright as a child's. And yeah, Dean was crying, too. Just a little, though, and Sam was sure he would deny it.

"Nah," Dean said. He crossed the few steps to the couch and knelt by Castiel, laying a hand on his head, feeling the lack of fever. "Nah, Bobby. You didn't miss a thing. We're good. It's all good."

Bobby looked at Sam, the skeptical twist of his lips declaring that he didn't believe a word of this. Sam just smiled and nodded.

"Yeah. It's all good."

The End


End file.
